


Reversion, or a Homecoming

by Wolf_of_Lilacs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Voldemort, Angst, Asexual Character, Autistic Character, Camouflaging, Convoluted Curse-Breaking, F/F, Fairy Tale Resemblance, Female Harry Potter, Female Tom Riddle, Slow Burn, Some politics, Sphinxes, don't know what this is tbh, it's weird - Freeform, pretty much everyone is queer AF, probably not what you expect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2018-11-01 19:57:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10928982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_of_Lilacs/pseuds/Wolf_of_Lilacs
Summary: On her quest to "mine magic's best-kept secrets," Tommie Riddle is cursed to wander as the creature that resembles her name. Half a century later, Harriet Potter takes part in the Triwizard Tournament, and their paths cross.Harriet's got misgivings, but at least her new acquaintance is interesting. Nothing is straightforward, though, and both their lives will change irrevocably... whether they want it or not.Breaking the curse is only the beginning.





	1. The Follies of Fools

The Egyptian sun beat down mercilessly from a cloudless blue sky as Tommie Riddle approached the mirage-like ripple at the crest of a lonely hill. The ripple was difficult to spot in the glare off the sand, but the heady, heavy power about this place was unmistakable. Almost no travelers made it this close to the tomb of the ancient, Nameless Sorcerer, who, legend held, had discovered true immortality—without the need of crude methods such as Horcruxes or vampirism—or easily-overcome ways such as the Philosopher's Stone. Truthfully, Tommie was content with her five ill-gotten Horcruxes, but she was anything if not thorough; if a superior path toward immortality existed, she vowed to find it, no matter the cost.

The folk in the Wizarding settlement at the hill's base had cautioned her against the ascent. "I'd rather not send another adventurer to their death," an olive-skinned, dark-haired witch of indeterminate age had sighed. "Better wizards than you never returned." The few other people brave enough to leave the cooler shade of their houses nodded in sage agreement.

"I am Lord Voldemort," Tommie replied. To her disappointment, none of her audience flinched appropriately. "I will mine magic's best-kept secrets, for I intend to go down in history as the greatest witch of this age."

"Bold, foolish words from one so young," the witch said. "If we meet again—that is, if we meet again and he hasn't changed you in some way, I might just believe you."

Oh, she'd show her.

When Tommie reached the top of the hill, she rested with her pack nestled behind her to consider what she was up against. The wards were hard to sense, and she was exhausted and covered in a film of sweat. She lifted her damp hair to massage her neck and took a sip of water from the bottle at her hip. Wishing ruefully that she could have dispensed with this demeaning and Muggle hike—replete with physical exertion and endurance of the taste of stale, chalky water as it was, she turned to the task at hand.

The tomb's wards were slippery, nearly impossible to untangle. Tommie would find a knot of magic, then lose it in a burst of sparks and sand. This process repeated five or six times, her frustration mounting with each failure.

"Is there a price I must pay?" she hummed, the wards resisting her once more. On a whim, she made a small cut in her finger, and allowed a few drops of blood to scatter in the sand near the visible distortion of the air. With that, the wards were easy to unravel, almost as if they wished to be. Odd...

As the last of the wards dissolved, the tomb itself appeared: a plain, undecorated sandstone structure, no taller than ten feet at its peak. Tommie ducked through a small opening in the side, and straightened to her full, less than imposing five feet six inches as she walked down a cool, narrow corridor that served as the tomb's welcome mat. A faint, dank breeze carrying the scent of old stone wafted about her as she walked, her feet echoing along the dusty floors.

The corridor widened into a central room lined with guttering torches. Tommie shivered as she noticed a small, thin man sitting with crossed ankles in a chair, a book in hand, the torchlight reflecting off his bald head. "I've been expecting you," the man said into the silence.

"Did the witch in the village inform you I was coming?"

"Naturally, though you were far from discreet." The man rose from his chair and walked toward her. "Welcome to my tomb. Or my home, really, seeing as I'm not dead. Anyway, I am the Nameless Sorcerer, as so many have dubbed me. Who are you, and why are you here?"

"I am Lord Voldemort. I seek knowledge," Tommie said, breathing deeply to quell her rising excitement. "I wish to know how you achieved immortality."

The Sorcerer's eyes sparked with rage. "Impudence! You have committed abominable acts to mutilate your soul. Your arrogance is boundless and quite offensive to me, as is that ridiculous name you've chosen. The knowledge you seek will be useless while your foolishness persists." He flicked his hand, and a bolt of blue light shot toward her. She managed to dodge; in the process, her feet tangled and she landed heavily on one elbow. Pain jarred through the bones of her arm.

"However," he mused, contemplating her spralled form, "few have made it into my tomb. Fewer still have departed unscathed." He smirked at her. "So saying, I will let you go."

_What?_ "My thanks," Tommie hedged, hoisting herself unsteadily to her feet.

"Hmm, I'd hold off thanking me until you hear my terms," he said, carelessly waving a hand.

"All right then," Tommie returned. "What would those terms be?"

"You shall walk the earth as a creature of my choosing, until the curse accompanying your new form is broken. Really, I'm doing you a favor," he added, forestalling her protest. "Tearing your soul in the manner you have? Unutterably irresponsible! I'm fixing that, while someone still can."

"Wait—" she pleaded, ashamed of the tremor in her voice. He ignored her protest, whispering an incantation she didn't catch. Pain engulfed her, pain like she had never known: Hunching shoulders, bending limbs, spine extending into a long tail, hands and feet curling and crunching into paws, a faint pricking as her teeth became those of a carnivorous mammal. And deeper still, another agony, as the shards of her tattered soul were squished together like a lump of extraphysical clay. No, she screamed. All those adeptly-planned murders—wasted!

She lay gasping and confused at the feet of the ancient sorcerer. "In case you couldn't tell, you're a sphinx, Tommie Merope Riddle. I'm sure you appreciate the irony," he purred. "You shall remain this way until someone finds the answer to the riddle I shan't tell you."

She growled ferociously, and he laughed. "Now, now, dear. That's no way to improve your lot. No one will wish to help you if you insist upon growling at them." He gestured with his left hand, and she felt herself caught up in a gale. "Good luck, Miss Riddle. I daresay you'll need it."

Tommie was deposited unceremoniously at the base of the hill she had so recently scaled, the tomb once again obscured. She lay quietly evaluating this new body of hers. A lithe strength infused her limbs. Her claws were sharp. Rising, she stretched onto her toes, admiring glossy dark fur and sinuous muscles.

She could get used to this. Sphinxes lived long, and held powerful magics of their own. Unfortunately, this knowledge did her little good. She had read about sphinxes only once, and with nothing more than perfunctory attentiveness. Instinct was powerful, however; she'd learn what she wished to know in due time.

"You survived!" The olive-skinned witch appeared nearby, eyes gleaming in the late afternoon sun. "Well, this is more interesting than his usual curses. I suggest you make the best of it. Whatever your riddle is, the answer will be nigh impossible."

Tommie nodded curtly. "I don't doubt that. Would you know how I might go about returning home?"

Instead of answering, the witch briefly patted her shoulder and Disapparated, her laughter ringing in the slight breeze. Were the witch and the sorcerer lovers? Their responses to her had been almost identical...

Sighing, Tommie began to walk. Perhaps she could let herself be captured by some British creature enthusiasts, who would take her home—eventually.

*

The years in the desert passed slowly. Tommie walked for interminable miles, hoping to find the sort of wizards that trapped magical creatures so they could ship them home and gaze at them in quiet awe. On the days luck favored her, she ran across groups of Muggles, whom she had little choice but to play with incessantly—the spinx's need for puzzles and riddles became tiresome at times—and then to slaughter, for fear they would report her existence to Muggle authorities. The bloodshed should not have bothered her, and yet it did. This sort of gratuitous killing seemed different than the murders for her Horcruxes. There was no prior planning. These people were insignificant. Bloody kills bored her, left her cold and unsatisfied. She took such pride in the anonimity and flawless execution for Horcrux murders; what she did in the Egyptian desert shamed her.

Rarely, she met other sphinxes, who were belligerently territorial and had little to say beyond snarling and clawing. On one memorable occasion, a male sphinx attempted to mount her, making promises of undying devotion and riddles never before heard as he did so. "Get the fuck off me," she growled, pushing him away in disgust.

"Come now, darling," he purred, circling her. "You seem so lonely out here."

"I need no one," she replied, and then gave him a wound severe enough that it had scarred by the next time she saw him, while they were both pursuing a herd of camels.

Males were all the same, she concluded, no matter their species.

When the day of her return home came, she nearly missed it. By now, Tommie felt more sphinx than woman, having spent twice as much of her life-fifty years of it—as the former. But here were British wizards, chasing her across the sand...

"Why do you wish to capture me?" she asked, coming to a stop and turning to face them.

"There's going to be a Tournament in a few months," one of the wizards said, "and they wanted a sphinx for one of the tasks."

"No doubt to tell a riddle and attack the competitor if they fail to answer correctly."

"They didn't give us details," the wizard said. "They just said to bring back a sphinx, uninjured and willing." 

"I meet those specifications to the letter," Tommie purred.

"After the Tournament," the wizard went on, "we'll release you here, so it wouldn't be permanent captivity."

"Fine, fine," Tommie said. "I would have consented to go with you, even without that."

As Tommie and the British wizards departed, a shadowy figure watched. "That's it, girl," the Nameless Sorcerer whispered. "Go on home. The one who can break your curse awaits."

*

_I really should have listened to Hermione and not entered this thing_ , Harriet Potter thought, clutching the stitch in her side as she ran from the Blast-Ended Skrewt which pursued her relentlessly, ceasing only after she created the illusion of a brick wall in its path. The maze was eerily silent now, as if holding its breath in anticipation for something she could not sense. The Cup was close. If her luck held, she'd no doubt run into something nasty enough to make the Skrewt look like an abject failure.

"Halt, child, or else I will be forced to attack you."

Harriet skidded to a stop just before running headlong into the next creature serving as an entertaining obstacle for all those watching. A sphinx crouched before her, blocking the way forward, clearly prepared to spring if she made any more sudden movements, its long tail twitching.

Harriet's first question should probably have been along the lines of "okay then, what do I need to do?" Instead she asked, "Um, are spinxes white now? All the pictures I've seen show them with darker skin," for the sphinx before her was pale-faced, lacking even a subtle olive tint, with high cheekbones and a wide forehead, black hair—like Harriet's, except not as wild—spilling across her shoulders. She had chocolate-brown fur and a white underbelly; her unsheathed claws gleamed dully in the light of Harriet's wand.

At Harriet's question, the sphinx nearly laughed. "Oh no, only me," she replied. "Got on the wrong side of a powerful sorcerer many years ago."

"You were born human, then," Harriet said, surprised. She'd never heard of anyone powerful enough to manage a Trafiguration like this. Undoubtedly Hermione would be intrigued (and then pepper her with questions, after which she would disappear for several weeks, emerging only when she made herself sick from neglecting basic necessities, like eating and sleeping... Merlin, Hermione was the greatest friend a girl could have).

The sphinx nodded. Her eyes—obsidian, long-lashed—were wistful as she examined Harriet. "How I would have loved to show off my abilities in a competition like this."

"Is it possible to break the curse?" Harriet asked, feeling a deep and unexpected pity for this creature she'd only just met.

"For all intents and purposes, I'd say no. It's been decades, and I rather doubt its requirements can be fulfilled." The sphinx shook her head in annoyance, as if shooing a fly.

"I'll help you," Harriet heard herself say, before she could think about the implications of her offer. Hermione would shake her, shout about her "saving people thing," and tell her emphatically to step back and think. But too late for caution now, because the sphinx was giving her a desperately hopeful look. "Are you certain?" she asked skeptically.

"I— Yes," Harriet said, with a confidence she did not feel.

"In that case, you must free me from the spells that bind me within the Maze when you reach the Cup, so that I can follow you out afterward. However, before we begin, you must answer a riddle in order to pass me. I'd dispense with the riddle out of gratitude, but I'm a sphinx. Riddles are what we do."

"Can't say I'm surprised. Go on."

The sphinx narrowed her eyes at Harriet's flippant tone, then settled onto her haunches with the playful, volatile air of her kind. "First think of the person who lives in disguise, deals in secrets and tells naught but lies. Next, tell me what's always the last thing to mend, middle of middle and end of the end? And finally give me the sound often heard, during the search for a hard-to-find word. Now string them together and answer me this, which creature would you be unwilling to kiss?"

Well damn. Start with the second clue, because the answer was obviously D. The first seemed like a Slytherin, but was more likely a spy. And the third? "Er," Harriet mumbled, "is there a time limit on this?"

"I rather want you to pass me, girl," the sphinx growled, "so please answer correctly, and soon."

"Spider?" Harriet said, as she figured out the third part. "I mean, 'er' is a sound I make, and I'd only kiss a spider if I had a hitherto unknown arachnid fetish."

"Lovely," said the sphinx. "Now then, let's get going. Disillusion me once you have the Cup, and I will stay close when you leave the maze."

"And the other spells they have one you? How am I supposed to remove them?” Harriet couldn't help but ask.

"If you touch the Cup while touching me, I expect they will break due to the proximity."

"And if they don't?"

The sphinx gave a low half-growl. "There is little my captors can do if they cannot find me."

Harriet sighed. "Is your riddle a clue for the next obstacle?"

"Why would I give you a riddle with no purpose?"

"So it is."

The sphinx's eyes sparkled. "If I told you, that would be cheating."

"Let's get this over with," Harriet said.

The final walk took less time than Harriet believed it should. After the suspense of the rest of the maze, she thought bitterly, perhaps they wanted a fast finish. In the center of the clearing, the Cup shone with an unearthly golden glow. Harriet barely stopped herself dashing headlong toward it. Slow down, she thought chidingly, or else you might fuck this up.

"Oh, would you look at that," Harriet lamented as one of Aragog's ugliest and hairiest descendants scuttled relentlessly toward her. (No, she didn't have an arachnid fetish after all.) It was on her before she could raise her wand. God, this thing was... too fast to be allowed.

"If you get yourself killed on the verge of victory," the sphinx growled, "then you certainly didn't deserve to get this far."

"Oh, shut up!" Harriet snapped, gasping in pain as one of the creature's pincers dug into her hip. Finally managing to raise her wand, she shot a gout of flame into its face, crawling laboriously out of its way as it fell twitching and smoking to the ground.

Harriet edged around the fallen spider to the center of the clearing, the sphinx brushing against her left hand. Pocketing her wand, Harriet grasped the handle of the Cup. Golden sparks exploded about her, and a new path opened in the hedge, this one wide and unencumbered by snaking vines.

"I am a genius," the sphinx purred. "Their binding enchantments are as impotent now as a castrated Muggle."

Harriet cringed. "Kudos to you, then. Er, wasn't that comparison a little graphic? And prejudiced?"

"Should have known you were a bleeding heart," the sphinx sighed. "Well, hurry and Disillusion me so we can walk the Path of Glory out of here."

Grimacing, Harriet whispered the incantation and hit the sphinx across the head with perhaps more force than necessary. The charm worked beautifully, leaving hardly any visible traces. "Good work," the sphinx said admiringly. "Your Disillusioning equals mine, or what mine once was."

"Thanks," Harriet said, thinking privately that this witch's ego was what had led to her being cursed in the first place.

Path of Glory was a bit hyperbolic. The maze's newest addition, though wide and well-tended, was dark and curved in every possible direction. By the time she reached the end, Harriet's surroundings spun sickeningly about her. "I won. Why must they torment me more?"

"Why not?" the sphinx replied.

"And the winner of the Triwizard Tournament of 1998 is Hogwarts Champion Harriet Potter!" Ludo Bagman shouted, bouncing up and down with unbridled excitement. "Give it up for Potter, folks." The cheers were deafening. Harriet—resisting the temptation to cover her ears—raised the Cup to raucous applause and chants of "HOGWARTS!" and "POTTER!". She thought she saw a few audience members blow kisses.

Harriet glanced pleadingly across the field at Professor Dumbledore, sitting ensconced in the judges' section of the stands. Catching her eye, Dumbledore nodded and rose to his feet, his robes—silver as his hair—glimmering in the half-light. "Miss Potter is tired from her ordeal. Perhaps we can continue this celebration after she has had time to rest?" His suggestion was met with a faint chorus of disappointed groans.

"The old coot is still alive?" the sphinx hissed next to Harriet. "He's got to be over a hundred by now."

There was a much louder chorus of sympathetic groans from the crowd. "Sounds fair to me!" Bagman said. "Awards ceremony right here tomorrow at noon. It's gonna be great, and all of you had better be there." The crowd cheered, and began to disperse.

"I'd recommend that you go hide in the forest, but that's most likely where they'll look for you," Harriet said. "So, come with me, I suppose. Just stay out of people's way."

"Well, obviously," the sphinx growled. "I have no desire whatsoever to be recaptured and taken back to where they found me."

"Yeah, and having a sphinx for a pet is a pretty serious crime, so please don't do something that'll get me arrested."

"I wouldn't dream of it," the sphinx replied. "Though if you dare refer to me as your pet again, I may reconsider."

In the chaos and euphoria of Harriet's victory, no one seemed to take any notice of her conversation with thin air.

Madam Pomfrey rushed over, clucking her tongue. "Games like these are dangerous for no good reason. So, any injuries, Potter?"

"Yeah—"

"Oh never mind that. Come with me," Pomfrey continued, acting as if Harriet hadn't spoken. She led her to the hospital tent, where Claire Leroux, the Beauxbatons champion, already lay.

"I'd congratulate you, Potter, but I'm too disappointed. Give me time," Claire said.

"Fine," Harriet replied.

"Merlin, Potter," Pomfrey sighed. "Is this acromantula venom? The things people find entertaining..." She trailed off in annoyed muttering. "Drink this," Pomfrey said at last, dabbing something on Harriet's wound and handing her a goblet of what Harriet guessed to be some sort of antidote. Whatever it was, it tasted terrible. Pomfrey moved away to greet the exhausted-looking Durmstrang champion, who gave Harriet a bitter glare as she was marched past.

"Look at that. You've made powerful enemies," the sphinx whispered close to Harriet's ear.

"No I haven't," Harriet hissed back. "We all agreed to the rules, and I won. But, yeah, I'm a little concerned they might curse me in my sleep..."

"I do not express anything remotely sentimental," the sphinx said, "but I need you, so I'll keep watch."

"Er, thanks," Harriet replied, relaxing back into hou pillows.

Not twenty minutes passed before Pomfrey came back. "All right, Potter. You should be good to go. Get plenty of rest. Don't stay up celebrating."

"I'll do no such thing," Harriet promised gravely.

"That's it, girl. Now, I never want to see you again. Merlin knows you've come to me far too often over the years."

Harriet smiled. "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you, for everything."

Pomfrey hugged her, misty-eyed, before pushing her through the tent flap. The Disillusioned sphinx followed on silent paws, leaning against Harriet's hand as they walked out into the night.

"Harriet!" Hermione came running, nearly knocking Harriet off her feet with the force of her hug. "Oh my god, you won! And I know I said repeatedly that the Tournament as a whole was dangerous, and that I'd never speak to you again if you entered—"

"Among other things," Harriet cut in.

"Yes, well, congratulations anyway."

"Thanks, Hermione," Harriet said. "Um, I have to take care of something before I go to the Tower, so I'll meet you there."

"What is it?"

"Oh, I'm going to send a letter."

"All right." Hermione smiled radiantly and hugged Harriet once more before departing for the castle.

"And where exactly are you going?" the sphinx asked.

"Room of Requirement. Best place for you to stay until we leave, wouldn't you say?"

"You found the Room of Hidden Things?" the sphinx growled, sounding immensely annoyed.

"Well, yeah, I've stumbled across it a time or two. And I've got house-elf friends."

"Who befriends house-elves but a Gryffindor?"

"Okay then," Harriet snapped. "There's nothing wrong with being a Gryffindor. So, what were you?" She began walking, the sphinx keeping up easily.

"Slytherin, naturally."

"Oh boy," Harriet groaned.

By the time they reached the blank stretch of wall across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and his fruitless endeavor, Harriet's feet ached and her head was swimming. I need a place for a sphinx to sleep, she thought, pacing unsteadily in front of the wall. A door appeared, and she opened it onto a large room covered in a thick rug, which had little else in the way of decoration.

"This looks cozy," the sphinx noted, padding inside. "Now then, remove the charm. I would like to see my paws properly."

Harriet did as she was bid, then flopped onto the rug, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. She opened them once more, however, at a sharp jab to her ribs.

"Excuse me, but do you intend to sleep here?"

Harriet rolled onto her side. "Why shouldn't I? This rug is comfortable enough, and I'm fucking exhausted. Also by staying here I get to avoid more congratulations until tomorrow."

"This room was made for my use," the sphinx said, stalking around Harriet, and crouching so that their faces were nearly level. Her eyes—dark and weirdly attractive—bore into Harriet's. "I would much prefer to spend the night alone."

"Too bad." Harriet squeezed her eyes shut and rolled onto her other side.

"I believe your bed would be far more comfortable," the sphinx tried.

"God, fine!" Harriet sighed. "I'll go. See you tomorrow, and I hope you're less bitchy by then, because I've already gone out of my way to help you, and I have doubts as to whether that was a good idea."

The sphinx smiled, baring her fangs. "Oh, I am grateful. But this isn't 'bitching,' as you so crudely put it. This is how I have always been."

"Ugh." Harriet pushed herself heavily to her feet, and left the room in a huff.

"What took you so long?" Hermione asked as Harriet entered the seventh year girls' dorm and flopped onto her bed.

"Owls were out hunting," Harriet replied. "Had to wait for Hedwig to get back."

"Oh, of course," Hermione said, yawning. “'Night, and congratulations again."

"Sure. ‘Night." Harriet buried her face in her down pillow, seeing the dark-furred sphinx prowling behind her eyes.


	2. Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Dumbledore thinks too much.

Albus Dumbledore was deeply troubled. He sat in his dimly-lit office, the only light source a guttering candle at his elbow and the embers of a dying fire. He twiddled his thumbs and hummed to himself, as he did most evenings, but tonight these activities failed to calm his racing thoughts. Something was terribly wrong. He felt the wrongness deep in his aching bones, tasted it like cold metal in his mouth.

To reassure himself of the champions' safety, he had performed a cursory once-over of the maze's creatures—shrouded in a powerful Disillusionment Charm to avoid their notice—before the evening's events began. He didn't expect to find anything out of the ordinary. Why should he, when all the creatures that came into the country specifically for the Tournament had been scrutinized beyond all mortal ken? Yet one creature ... disturbed him. He couldn't get a closer look, for fear she would sense him and make a fuss, but he remained entirely certain of what he'd seen.

The sphinx (for a bit of high-end mystery, the maze's overseers claimed) had the face of Miss Tommie Riddle. 

Tommie Riddle: The most troublesome student he ever had the displeasure to teach. She hadn't been seen in decades. Truth be told, he presumed her to have died from some botched magical experiment or other (this prospect didn't cause him much grief), yet here she was. Or rather, had been.

The sphinx's handlers desperately sounded the alarm some hours ago that their charge had vanished, her binding enchantments broken so thoroughly, it was as if they were never cast. What should he do? Perhaps dissuade them from continuing their search, because of what they might find? Help them, for fear of what letting her loose might bring? For if the sphinx was indeed Tommie Riddle, then she had returned to a world ready to receive her ideas, her plans and purpose unknown. 

Dumbledore popped a lemon drop into his mouth, its wonderful tartness exploding upon his tongue. Perhaps Tommie deserved a chance to prove herself, to stay and bring into being whatever her vision may be. And yet... What might she do if she were to become human again? More importantly, what damage could she cause until then?

"Should I be worried, Fawkes?" he asked, running a hand down the phoenix's soft back as the scarlet-plumed bird perched heavily on his knee. Fawkes responded with a noncommittal coo, butting Dumbledore's hand with his head to encourage more stroking. Dumbledore obliged, scratching him under his beak.

"Something on your mind, Dumbledore?" Phineas Nigellus Black's snide voice broke into Dumbledore's reverie.

"Nothing that concerns you," Dumbledore sighed, glaring up at the portrait, who sat idly twirling his thin mustache.

"Suit yourself," Black replied. "But I was preserved in paint to give you advice. Nay, to pass on the hard-won wisdom of my generation." He spoke sardonically. Really, did he have any other expression?

"You are greatly appreciated," Dumbledore replied, his tone matching Black's. "Now please hush, so I can continue brooding."

"Fine," Black grumbled. "Your brooding is boring." He pretended to go back to sleep, snoring peevishly. The other portraits continued in various states of feigned and real sleep, none so much as stirring at the exchange.

Popping a second lemon drop into his mouth, Dumbledore fell back into his anxious thoughts. One of the Champions helped Tommie Riddle, more than likely the Hogwarts one. It was worth speaking to Miss Potter at the very least, he decided. Riddle's gift for making allies would be impossible to miss if Potter lied inexpertly to his face. ... Who the hell was he kidding? Potter helped her, and no denial would convince him otherwise.

*

"Miss Potter, may I speak with you outside for a moment?"

Potter sat in the middle of the Gryffindor table, surrounded by admirers, her head bent in a vain attempt to avoid them. "I suppose," she replied, hopping to her feet—rather eager to get away from her fellow students, he thought—and following him from the hall. "What do you need, sir? Is this about the Tournament?"

"In a manner of speaking," he hummed. "By the way, congratulations on your victory snatched from the grasping jaws of defeat."

"Thank you, sir." The words were worn out, reluctant. "But I think 'the pincers of defeat' would be more accurate."

He laughed delightedly. "Indeed. So, Miss Potter, is there anything you wish to tell me?"

"Not that I can think of, sir," she replied swiftly, avoiding his gaze and picking at a patch of lint on her emerald green dress robes. Ha! Got her!

"Did anything unusual occur in the maze last evening?"

"Well, no, sir. No more unusual than I expected, and certainly no more unusual than was intended."

"Hmm, nothing to do with an escaped sphinx?" he pressed, twinkling his eyes at her, to put her at ease. (Also, his twinkle was legendary, dammit. He couldn't have her going around saying he neglected to twinkle at her.) "You've heard about that, I presume."

"I did hear, but I don't know anything that might possibly be of use. That sphinx wanted to kill me," Potter protested. "No way in hell I'd help it!"

Goodness, she was better at this than he expected. "Fair enough. Incidentally, as far as I am aware, the sphinx was once a student here named Tommie Riddle. Strange that someone could bring about such a Transfiguration, no?"

Potter's eyebrows rose. "That name is familiar. Wasn't she Head Girl?"

"Naturally," he confirmed. "She had quite an illustrious career while in attendance. She's fascinating, really." He left her at the base of the spiral staircase, where she appeared somewhat anxious and conflicted. Her expression mirrored his own misgivings. There would be no admission to having aided Riddle, and he had little to gain by accusing her. (Merlin's beard! He wouldn't ruin the awards festivities over this!) Perhaps Riddle's plotting wouldn't hurt anyone if he left her alone... Oh, but he would watch for her. British Wizarding society didn't have a chance of surviving a scheme from Riddle's brilliant mind.

*

Harriet's morning had gotten off to a terrible start. She awoke before the sun rose, with a pounding headache and a foul taste in her mouth. After that, she couldn't get back to sleep, and spent the intervening hours tossing and turning in her oppressively warm blankets, worrying over the upcoming ceremony. Eventually becoming fed up with her unquiet mind, Harriet got up and dressed in a silk green dress robe she had worn to the Yule Ball, then sat in the empty Common Room to await the breakfast rush. Curling with her chin resting on her knees in an armchair in an isolated corner and swaying slightly back and forth, she dwelt longingly on skipping the ceremony to embark on getting to know the enigmatic sphinx.

Going to breakfast had been a mistake, for to make matters worse, her fellow Gryffindors refused to let her sit and eat in peace, insisting upon loudly discussing her victory in order to incite the envy of the other Houses. Hermione had not been particularly capable when attempting to draw their attention away, instead getting into a heated argument with Lavender Brown about the impression Harriet's defiantly wild hair would make on the European Wizarding public. ("She looks like she doesn't give a damn!" "Why should she have to change her appearance for a stupid ceremony like this? Besides, everyone has been watching her for months!")

And now Dumbledore and his insinuations. Harriet rocked from foot to foot as he left her standing alone, uncertain how to proceed. Dumbledore seemed hesitant to explicitly confirm his suspicions as to her involvement in the sphinx's—Riddle's—escape. And if Riddle was indeed "the most troublesome student," then it would behoove her to know precisely who she had so impulsively aided. Two hours remained before the awards ceremony. So, what to do? Should she go to the library to research Tommie Riddle, or to the Room of Requirement to question Tommie Riddle about her past? Sighing resignedly, Harriet headed to the library, wondering what awaited her there.

"Madam Pince, where would I find information on past students?"

Pince glared at her with hawkish eyes, pointing imperiously at a section of old records with a huffy sigh.

"Thank you," Harriet said graciously, not waiting for a response. The library was utterly deserted, with the rest of the school running about in anticipation of Hogwarts's crowning glory. Harriet blissfully basked in the silence. She wandered through the stacks, searching for... what year had Riddle finished her seventh year? "Madam Pince, have you heard of a student named Tommie Riddle?" Harriet asked, returning to Pince's desk.

"Who hasn't heard of Tommie Riddle? Most brilliant student this school has seen since Dumbledore himself. She would have been great if she hadn't disappeared." There was a bitter cast to Pince's face as she spoke. "She was Head Girl in 1944-45," she grunted after studying her hands. "Is that enough?"

"I'm sure it is. Thank you." Harriet walked back to the section and pulled out a bundle of parchments labeled 1945, rifling through them to find a summary of that year's prefects and Head Boy and Girl.

The record—clinical, unfeeling—revealed nothing more remarkable about Riddle than twelve Outstanding OWLs and an Award for Services to the School when in her fifth year—though what the award was for, it didn't say. Harriet pushed all the papers back onto their shelf, feeling as if she'd wasted her time coming here. What professors had Riddle liked? What were her career goals? None of the things that made a living, breathing person resided here. Dumbledore's claim that Riddle was "fascinating" rang hollow, nothing more than a ploy to force her to show her hand. Undoubtedly, he would ask Pince if she had come here... Damn.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Pince grumbled as Harriet passed by on her way to the door.

"I don't know," Harriet replied. "But thank you for not congratulating me on winning the Tournament. It's been... rather repetitive."

Pince smiled at this. "I've always liked you, Potter. You're the best sort of library patron. You respect the books and ask good questions." She coughed awkwardly. "Good luck." She clearly meant this for more than just the approaching ceremony.

They shook hands in farewell. Pince's skin felt dry and papery. Harriet quashed any pity for the lonely old woman. Pince had her books and wouldn't appreciate pity. If she was happy, who was Harriet to judge? Or, heaven forbid, to fear for her own future?

*

Everything was quiet. The rug had been as comfortable as it first appeared, and Tommie lay in a heap upon it in contented repose. Hogwarts magic whispered about her, sheltering her from the myriad emotions and scents of the hundreds of people about the castle. She was home—her first true home... The peace of this room almost helped her forget the pounding headache at the first onslaught of the emotions of so many—more people than she'd been near since her curse—that had manifested when the binders' enchantments upon her broke. 

"Hey, Sphinx Girl," a far-too-cheerful voice for this—or any—time of day said from the doorway, rousing Tommie from her comfortable musing. The girl's emotions hummed comfortably at the edge of her awareness. Curiosity, annoyance, an undercurrent of anxiety.

"Oh, it's you," Tommie sighed, opening her eyes and stretching to her full length. "What do you want?"

"I have food for you, and a few questions while you eat it," Potter replied. She lifted a hand to reveal a bag of raw meat, fresh and bloody, wrapped neatly in butcher paper.

"Ah, thank you," Tommie said shortly, sniffing the meat—beef, it turned out—with distaste as Potter placed it before her.

"You're welcome," Harriet said. "House-elves do good work, especially when you're nice to them. So, will you answer a question or two?"

"Fine," Tommie growled, biting into the nearest piece of meat. It tasted... dead. Cold. Meat was best eaten directly after it was caught, pulled red, warm, and dripping from the bones—damn the animal brain. "Fire away." Not that Tommie intended to give straight answers. No, she'd simply do anything to sate the girl's curiosity so she'd leave quickly, or perhaps come back quickly. Tommie wasn't certain which less irksome.

"Your name is Tommie Riddle, correct?"

Well, there went the semblance of anonymity. "Indeed, girl," Tommie hissed. "How did you come by that information?"

"Dumbledore suggested I research you, but the library didn't have anything all that useful."

And why should it? Instead, she said, "The old coot saw me?" Damn him to hell. She would never reclaim her prior position with Dumbledore poking his crooked nose into places it didn't belong. "Interesting that he should care about my return. I fucked up before I could enact any of my plans." (Fucked up: crude, but useful for seeming relatable.)

"So, your curse," Potter clarified.

"Obviously, fool."

"What would you have been without the curse?" Harriet asked, sitting cross-legged on the rug beside her, pulling her robes fastidiously over her knobbly knees. Tommie edged away.

"Oh, a politician," Tommie murmured. "I would have changed the world for the better, perhaps using methods with which Dumbledore would not have agreed."

"Better how? And for whom?" Harriet asked sharply.

"People would get what they deserve," Tommie replied, kneading her paws in satisfaction at this obfuscation. "Justice would be served, society's proper order achieved, etc."

Potter looked dubious, her curiosity sharpening deliciously. But dammit, Tommie wanted her to leave! Not to stay and ask more questions... "Right," Harriet said. "That sounds... questionable. Anything else I should know?"

"Not at the moment," Tommie purred, wanting nothing more than to bottle Potter's curiosity and hold it close. "Isn't your award ceremony soon?"

"Oh shit," Harriet said, jumping to her feet and checking her watch. "I have ten minutes to get there. Thank you for the stimulating conversation, Riddle." She paused suddenly, her hand to her mouth. Tommie had a sudden, sinking suspicion as to the nature of Potter's thought, because the girl's curiosity suddenly gave way to sparkling amusement. Much to her dismay, she was proven correct. "Riddle? Your name is Riddle, and you were transformed into a sphinx?"

Tommie flicked her tail and turned her back on the now openly snickering Potter. "Do you find the sense of irony of the man who cursed me lacking?"

"No. Not... Definitely not."

"Please go, foolhardy Gryffindor. I wouldn't want you to be late to such a significant moment in your life. Also," Tommie snapped, "your anxiety gives me headaches. Tone it down a bit before you come back." Potter gave one last loud guffaw before scurrying out the door.

Tommie lay down in the middle of her rug and moodily cleaned her claws. She'd lied. Potter's emotions—even the anxiety—did not induce headaches. They were ... inexplicably pleasant, almost enjoyable to observe. But why did she imply she wished for Potter to return?

She squeezed her eyes shut and prepared to go back to sleep. Stupid, unanswerable questions for a stupid, enigmatic girl.


	3. Nostalgia and Fear

Hermione leaned back in her top row seat, the late June sun beating down incessantly. She watched critically as Harriet and her defeated competitors were ushered onto a platform covered in banners showing the crests of all three schools, but with the Hogwarts H blown up at least twice as large as the crossed wands of Beauxbatons and the double-headed eagle of Durmstrang. Harriet appeared distinctly uncomfortable at all the attention she received, ducking her head at camera flashes and shifting away from reporters—most noticeable of whom was the pushy and unscrupulous Rita Skeeter, sharply attired in a fashionable red robe, with long nails painted to match and an ostentatious pair of jeweled spectacles perched on her nose. Hermione didn't like the term "bitch" and made it a point to never refer to anyone as such, but Rita was the exception. Her frequent insulting articles about Harriet with headlines like "Hogwarts Champion Will Fail Without Fixing Her Attitude", "Hogwarts's Cheater?: The True Story of How Harriet Potter Won the First Task", and "Picky Potter Snubs Her Yule Ball Date" made Hermione absolutely furious. Harriet did her best to ignore them.

Hermione's fury was enough for both of them. Rita had a secret that could get her thrown in Azkaban for a decade. Unfortunately for her, Hermione knew it. But oh dear, she didn't much like blackmail... Skeeter's amorality was contagious.

Leroux—beautiful, blonde, and Muggle-Born—and the Durmstrang champion, a dark-haired Russian girl named Ludmilla Vronskaya—looking not terribly dissimilar from Harriet herself, embraced the ubiquitous attention, their faces stoic, showing nothing of their disappointment.

"She needs to relax, like, a lot," Ginny Weasley said, sidling up next to Hermione and speaking close to her ear so as to be heard over the crowd's excited babble.

"No kidding," Hermione agreed. "Skeeter will eat this up later."

"She's still hot," Ginny added hurriedly, grinning. "Don't think she could possibly do anything to change that."

Hermione laughed in exasperation. "Don't think everyone agrees with you." Harriet had asked Ginny to the Yule Ball in perhaps her greatest misjudgment during the entire stupid Tournament. Ever since, Ginny had talked of little else—excluding Quidditch, her kitten, and her new "Revenge Is a Dish Best Served Right Fucking Now" pranks that her illustrious twin brothers never thought of. Harriet remained uninterested in a long-term relationship, but Ginny was gently persistent. "Anyway, she's not into you," Hermione said.

"I know, I know. I still don't understand what Chang had that I don't.”—Harriet had dated the Ravenclaw Seeker Cho Chang during her fifth year, with disastrous results.—"I'm a way better Quidditch player than she was, I'm not a bitch... I mean, what the fuck?" Ginny frowned, but then broke out in an excited smile. "Did you hear? Blaise Zabini asked me to go to Hogsmeade with him!"

"Congratulations!" Hermione said, punching Ginny playfully on the shoulder. "Now hush, it's starting," she hissed, as the four remaining judges of the Tournament joined the Champions and the fifth judge—a bouncing Ludo Bagman—on the platform, to thunderous applause.

For Hermione, this moment was a culmination of their seven-year friendship she never asked for. It was as though Harriet needed to prove herself, but to whom Hermione couldn't guess.

"Miss Potter, please come forward to officially accept the Triwizard Cup on behalf of your school," Cornelius Fudge, Britain's flamboyant yet forgettable Minister for Magic announced, standing in the midst of diplomatic representatives from the other Champions' countries, beaming and hopping excitedly from foot to foot. He tightly clutched his iconic lime-green bowler hat, occasionally jamming it over his gray hair, before removing it again in discomfort from the heat.

"But I wanted to do it," Bagman protested.

"Quiet, Ludo," Fudge grumbled. Bagman positively wilted, his boyish face infused with disappointment. As Harriet walked forward and Fudge droned on about her bravery and persistence in the face of nigh impossible odds, Hermione remembered back to the beginning.

*

"Can I sit here?" Hermione asked, finding a compartment on the swiftly-filling Hogwarts Express with a single occupant, who had her nose buried in a copy of _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade One_.

"I suppose," the girl said, marking her place with a scrap of paper and setting the book aside. She wore patched secondhand clothes that were at least a size too big. A pair of glasses—repaired liberally with tape—balanced lopsidedly on her nose. Brilliant, almond-shaped green eyes peered at Hermione through scratched lenses.

"What's your name? Did you know you were a witch before your letter arrived?" Hermione asked in a breathless rush, afraid the girl would lose interest in her and send her away.

"I'm Harriet Potter, and I had no idea," the girl replied, smiling hesitantly. "You?"

"I'm Hermione Granger. My parents were ever so pleased when they learned I was a witch. It's so exciting, isn't it? There's so much to learn! How will I ever remember it all? Oh, I hope I've studied enough..."

"Yeah," Harriet said. "I'd do anything to leave my aunt's house. She doesn't like me much." From the casual tone in her voice, Hermione guessed the feeling was mutual. "The kids raised with magic probably know loads. I've read through all the books, plus some extras. I'm sure it'll be enough."

"Me too," Hermione said in relief. Their conversation was abruptly interrupted by a round-faced boy with a panicked expression pushing open their compartment door. "Have either of you seen a toad? Mine ran away, and I have to find him. He was a present from my Uncle Algie, and if I lost him—" The boy sounded close to tears. 

Harriet and Hermione glanced at each other, smiling at how adorable the boy was. "Sure, we can help," they agreed. The three of them returned to the compartment a few moments later, having successfully located the boy's—Neville's—toad in one of the bathrooms, discussing everything from magic (Neville was raised with it, to the girls' excitement) to Houses (Gryffindor for all three, they hoped) to interests as varied as could be. That first terrifying yet exhilarating night, all three were indeed Sorted into Gryffindor. 

Harriet and Hermione studied hard for all their classes, dragging Neville along with them. They teamed up together in Potions against Professor Snape's snide remarks and intimidation attempts. They cheered Ron Weasley when he dueled Draco Malfoy in Flitwick's dueling club (and multiple times in the corridors). In third year, however, something changed.

A new Defense professor was hired, after the retirement of Alastor Moody, who held the post for some thirty years. (He'd gone a bit mad, they said, and lost an eye in an inexplicable accident.) His replacement was a much younger man named Remus Lupin, who said he'd known Harriet's parents and that he was her godfather.

For weeks, Harriet was devastated at this news, and gone was the calm and patient girl Hermione first met. If Lupin had known her parents, why didn't he ever come for her? Instead, she'd grown up with her aunt and cousin, who maybe loved her, but didn't necessarily appreciate her.

Hermione blinked, almost coming back to the present. The expression Harriet wore now resembled the expression she'd worn on discovering Lupin's lycanthropy and thus the reason he couldn't raise her: A mix of mild horror and teeth-clenching determination. "Wizarding laws are—" she choked, gripping Hermione's hand painfully tight. "Let's change the goddamn world."

"All right," Hermione replied. With that declaration, Harriet began studying with a vehemence Hermione had never seen before. Fifth year onward was an academic free-for-all between them, with no guaranteed winner. Neville was left in the dust. Overwhelmed by their now stringent homework schedules, he inadvertently befriended Luna Lovegood when taking a walk one evening.

"I win the Triwizard Tournament," Harriet said out of the blue one day just after the Tournament was announced, "and Pureblood supremacists and Dumbledore won't be able to ignore me."

Hermione disagreed. "It isn't worth the risk," she pleaded. "Maybe you'll win, but you're more likely to be humiliated!" Harriet had ignored her, and now here they were. God, she hoped Harriet was right.

*

Neville and Luna came hurrying up the stands toward Hermione and Ginny, Neville looking anxious and Luna serene. "Have we missed anything?" Neville asked, panting.

"Nothing terribly exciting," Hermione assured him. "Only Fudge giving a speech and being a dick like always." The two of them settled into the seats on her left.

"Cornelius Fudge doesn't want to speak," Luna noted thoughtfully. "He is doing the bidding of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's heliopaths."

Hermione tried to keep a straight face, imagining Amelia Bones commanding a mass of flaming monsters, while Neville and Ginny simply nodded in sage agreement.

Fudge finished his diatribe with "And now, let's recognize the accomplishments of our winning Champion!" Harriet waved from beside him. "All right, Potter, hold that Cup high!" Fudge encouraged, and she did, to wild applause and chants of her name. She looked regal—wild hair and tapping fingers or no. Her robes brought out the color of her eyes, her head raised and her back straight.

Huh. Maybe Harriet Potter could change the world...

*

While Hermione reminisced, Dumbledore observed.

Until the Tournament, he never had much cause to pay attention to Harriet Potter. To him, Hermione Granger always seemed the more consequential of the two, with her vocal—though likely fruitless—advocacy for house-elves and her nearly unmatched academics. Thus, he'd fully expected Miss Granger to enter her name for the Tournament. When she hadn't, he began to doubt his assessment. When it was Potter's name that emerged from the Goblet, he knew he'd misread the situation entirely.

Potter now walked down the line of judges, shaking hands as she went. When she reached him after brief handshakes with Igor Karkaroff (who had no compunctions whatsoever of showing his annoyance at her victory) and Olympe Maxime (whose congratulations appeared sincere), he tried to sense beyond her projected yet unfeigned anxiety, to understand what he'd missed. There was nothing. Reaching for her outstretched hand, he grasped her wrist and drew her to a halt.

"I noticed your detour to the library," he said, in an attempt to break her composure. "Did you research Tommie Riddle?" Suddenly, he was afraid that his suspicions of Potter were true. When before he had only been prepared to keep down Riddle alone, now he may have to contend with both of them.

"I just won great honors for your school, sir," Potter replied, her expression fixed. "Is this really the time and place to question me about such things?"

"Yeah, what the hell, Dumbledore?" Bagman said, hurrying up behind Potter to see what held her up. "She's got more hands to shake. Come on, Potter, let's keep moving here."

Potter nodded gratefully, and walked down the line to shake hands with Amelia Bones, the intrepid head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Well.

He had to give it to her, Dumbledore supposed, watching Potter continue on her way. Sorted into Gryffindor, an orphan with something (but what?) to prove... He was a fool for not seeing it sooner. So it goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a background chapter. Harriet and Tommie will be back next time.


	4. No Good Girls Here

"Table for two, please," Harriet said, striding to the bar of the Hog's Head and glaring at Aberforth Dumbledore. Aberforth raised an incredulous bushy eyebrow, the dim light hitting his spectacles in such a way that his eyes were entirely obscured.

"Do you see anyone here?" he asked. "Pick your table."

Harriet smiled viciously. "I'd like a clean table, Ab. You know, so I'll keep coming back."

"Don't know if I want you coming back, Potter, not since you became famous," Aberforth said, coming out from behind the bar and grudgingly wiping down the only table next to a... well, next to a window that was impossible to see through, for the thick layer of grime covering the glass. "Reporters might follow you here, especially that Skeeter bitch." He gave an exaggerated shudder at the thought.

Harriet rolled her eyes as she sat down. "Even though this place is filthy, wouldn't pass a health inspection, and smells like goats, I'll always be back," she said. "You're the only Hogsmeade bartender that serves werewolves."

"And the only Hogsmeade business owner that hires them," Aberforth agreed.

"Remus here?" Harriet asked.

"Yeah. I'll go get him," Aberforth grunted, sticking his head through the door to the back stairs. "Lupin! Potter's here!" They heard what sounded like several books hitting the floor—Harriet imagined Hermione's horror—as Remus Lupin tramped down the stairs and came running through the door. Today, he wore robes that, while in better condition than what he'd worn while teaching, were still patched at the elbows. His brown hair was intermingled liberally with gray, his face pinched in exhaustion. If the full moon were sooner than a couple weeks from now, Harriet realized gloomily, he would look even worse.

"Harriet!" Remus said, embracing her tightly.

"Remus!" she cried, hugging him enthusiastically in return.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be at your ceremony," he said, eyes downcast.

She sighed. "Don't apologize for shit a prejudiced, fucked-up society is responsible for." Since his resignation after Hogwarts at large learned he was a werewolf, Remus had been barred from the premises—at the insistence of spineless students, terrified parents, and a Ministry eager to throw their weight around.

"I still feel bad I couldn't be there for you," he said.

"It wasn't all that great," Harriet assured him. "Lots of boring speeches and way more Fudgey than is healthy."

"A regular hot Fudge desert," Remus quipped, spluttering as he took a large sip from the glass of fire whiskey Aberforth had set before him.

"Damn straight," Aberforth agreed, diligently wiping down the bar with a filthy rag. "Any more Fudge puns and you're both out of here."

"If either of us come up with another, we deserve nothing less than to be thrown out," Harriet said fervently. "Could I have a fire whiskey, too?"

"Fine," Aberforth huffed, pouring a glass and grudgingly bringing it over to her before hurrying back to his refuge behind the bar, where he proceeded to glare at the door through which no new patrons came.

"So, how's revising for your NEWTs coming along?" Remus asked, settling into the chair Harriet pulled out for him.

She groaned. "Don't remind me. I've got a month more than everyone else to study, and I really hope it's enough."

"Not to belittle your concerns," Remus said, "but you have won a Tournament that, practically speaking, is more difficult than an NEWT."

"That's funny," Harriet replied. "It isn't the practical exams I'm worried about."

"You know what I did for my NEWTs?" Aberforth called.

"Do I want to?"

"Sure you do. I studied the interesting bits and didn't give a shit what my results were. Plans like that made me into the successful individual I am today."

Harriet and Remus shuddered, then burst into gales of laughter.

"Aw come on," Aberforth complained. "It's true. I'm happy where I am, and that's my definition of success."

"Profound," Harriet choked. "I have goals, though. I need good scores for what I want to do."

Aberforth snorted. "Whatever you do, please don't be my brother. I hate him, but he isn't happy."

"Heaven forbid," Harriet agreed. "Your brother doesn't do any good for anyone. He maintains the status quo—"

"Preaching to the choir, kiddo," Remus said, forestalling her rant. "Anyway, if you need any help preparing, you know I'm available."

"Thanks, Remus," Harriet said. She began gathering her things.

"Leaving so soon?" Remus queried, clearly disappointed.

"Said I'd meet Hermione in the grounds," she replied. "I'll Owl you about our apartment, once we've signed the lease and whatnot."

He smiled. "You'd better, or I'll track you down." The two embraced once more before Harriet walked purposefully out the door and onto the deserted street.

"If I see anyone that looks like they need a drink,” she said to Aberforth over her shoulder, "I'll send them this way."

"You do that," Aberforth snapped, a smile almost visible beneath his wild brows.

*

Throughout the idyllic Hogwarts grounds, students celebrated the end of exams—putting off packing until the last possible moment, one could safely presume. Some dipped their feet in the lake and dared each other to tease the Giant Squid. Others could be distantly seen flying lazily about the now de-hedged Quidditch Pitch. Hermione, meanwhile, sat quietly by the lake under the large beech, enjoying the faint breeze that stirred the grass. Her NEWTs were finished, Harriet had won the stupid Tournament, and Rita Skeeter was walking nonchalantly toward her: Crocodile skin purse swinging, acid-green quill in hand.

"Hello, Rita," Hermione said, scrambling to her feet and gesturing for Rita to sit in the grass across from her.

Rita briefly shook Hermione's hand, nails gently piercing her skin, and then plopped down in the spot Hermione indicated, fastidiously arranging her scarlet robes. Hermione sat back down gracefully, placing a book to the side and pulling her bag close.

"You promised me an exclusive interview," Rita said, "so, let's get to it, hmm?"

Hermione bared her teeth in a smirk. "Oh, Rita," she sighed, shaking her head in disappointment. "Did you really think I would give you an interview that easily, after refusing for months?"

Rita leaned forward, glaring. "I could publish anything about you," she hissed. "Tell my readers how you led me on. Tell them about your illicit note-selling."

"I have never sold notes!" Hermione snapped.

"Of course not, dear," Rita purred, "but if you don't give me this interview..."

"I know what you are," Hermione said quickly. "I know about the beetle with the jeweled antennae with whom you have such an intimate relationship. But let's be blunt, Rita. I have photographic proof that you're an unregistered Animagus. I'll release it as soon as you start publishing anything about me or Harriet Potter that hasn't been pre-approved by me." Hermione pretended to rummage in her bag, then extracted the photograph she'd taken on a whim of Rita transforming into the beetle just inside the Forbidden Forest.

Rita's head drooped, hands twisting, her expression morphing into utter disgust. "Is that all you want?" she spat.

"Oh, I'd say so," Hermione replied. "The truth, as Harriet and I see it, is a small price to pay."

"Truth," Rita spat. "Actual truth would include an exposé on your blackmail."

Hermione smiled. "It would. But the truth I have in mind is only what I want people to know. Certainly, I shouldn't call it truth, but I think we've moved beyond objective definitions. Therefore, any deviation from what benefits us and I’ll turn you in."

"Fine," Rita said. "What do you want me to publish first, you bitch?"

"Oh, I'll let you know." Hermione ran her fingers through her hair in a vain attempt to straighten it. "But I expect the first article will be about how Harriet brought home the prize—without any unnecessary embellishments or criticisms. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"I would," Rita grudgingly admitted.

"See, this won't be so bad for you."

"I do not appreciate being blackmailed, no matter what I get out of it."

"Oh please," Hermione laughed. "You enjoy blackmailing. All's fair in politics, love."

Rita made to leave, but Hermione stopped her with a sharp tug of her hand. "What?" Rita asked plaintively. "What more can you possibly coerce from me?"

"I want your Quick-Quotes Quill."

"No!" Rita whined. "This is my other half! It's been with me since I could first afford it!"

"Too bad. Hand it over, or you know what I'll do with this photograph of mine." Hermione waved it under Rita's nose for maximum effect.

Rita threw her the quill, hard. "I hope you burn in hell, Granger."

"That won't happen," Hermione assured her, "mostly because I doubt there is a hell. But if there is, you'll be burning right along with me. Oh look, we’ve got company! Harriet!" Hermione shouted, waving her arms.

Harriet immediately changed her course from the lake toward the tree. "What's up?" she panted.

"I'll be on my way, then," Rita said.

Hermione nodded in farewell. "Send me the report on the Tournament before you publish it."

"You got it, bitch." Rita made to scurry away.

"Wha— What's she doing here?" Harriet spluttered. Rita halted to listen.

"Nothing much," Hermione promised. "Good day, Rita. I'll be in contact about that interview very soon."

"I look forward to it," Rita said, fingering something—likely her wand—in her pocket. With a final toss of her neatly coiffed blond hair, she walked away, the hand holding her crocodile skin purse dragging dejectedly at her side.

"Er, what the devil did you do?" Harriet asked, stretching out luxuriatingly in the grass beside her.

"Better question is what didn't I do," Hermione hummed.

"Okay. What didn't you do?" Harriet said obligingly.

"I did not commit murder, convert to the cause of Pureblood supremacy, or sell out to the fossil fuel industry."

"That doesn't tell me much," Harriet complained. "What did you do?"

"Blackmailed our worst enemy?" Hermione hedged.

"Very Slytherin of you," Harriet laughed approvingly. "What did you blackmail her with?"

In reply, Hermione showed her the photo she'd threatened Rita with to great effect.

"Holy fuck," Harriet said. "What do you get from her?"

"The truth, as we want it to be told."

Harriet's smile was radiant. "You are amazing. Have I ever told you that?"

"Oh, about a hundred times."

"Good," Harriet said. "Good. Um, can I have that quill? Never know when it might come in handy."

"Hell if I want it," Hermione returned, passing Harriet the Quick-Quotes monstrosity that she'd left laying abandoned in the grass near the beech's roots. "What are you going to do with it?"

Harriet rolled her eyes. "Writing experiments, I think."

"Yeah?"

"Don't know what sorts I'll do yet, but I bet it'll be loads better than what Rita used it for."

"You never disappoint," Hermione assured her. "Ah, but we need to briefly discuss when we're going in to sign our lease." Harriet trembled as Hermione withdrew a sheaf of papers from her bag.

"We go in on Monday the 29th, sign our shit, and move in on the 1st," she rattled off, sounding as nauseated as she looked.

"My god, Harriet," Hermione said, patting her hand. "All we'll be doing is signing some papers. The hard parts have already been taken care of. No one will be judging you. No one is out to sabotage you."

"I... I know," Harriet replied weakly. "I just—"

"I know," Hermione murmured. "I'll be there, signing everything you sign. We'll be fine. I promise."

"I'm sorry about all this," Harriet said, taking several deep breaths. "I shouldn't be so worked up over a goddamn apartment. I mean, you're not acting this way."

Hermione sighed. "My parents taught me everything I needed to know. Clearly, your aunt did not."

"Yeah. Lessons on survival in the real world didn't fit into her tough love routine. Anyway, I gotta go take care of some things. I'll se you later."

"All right." Hermione buried her nose in her book as Harriet walked back to the castle.

*

"For the love of—" Tommie growled, glaring down at the roll of parchment resting between her paws. The foundation of her brilliant plan to re-establish herself began with writing letters to potential and past allies. Without the benefit of opposable thumbs, she wrote by holding a quill between her teeth, but hadn't even got _that_ far. Every time one side of the parchment was successfully pinned down, the other side would spring back. The pot of ink spilled at least twice, leaving the carpet and her paws covered in a sticky, resin-scented residue.

Time to try something else.

Could the "Room of Requirement," as Potter called it, provide her with a (disgusting, Muggle, efficient) pen and paper, as it had so adeptly provided the quill and parchment? At her mere thought, those very implements materialized: Several sheets of lined paper and a rather attractive silver fountain pen. With the appearance of the pen and paper, the evidence of her prior writing debacle blessedly vanished. She shook her paws, just to make certain the ink was gone. Not a drop spattered from her fur. How convenient.

The pen was more fragile than it looked. As she grasped it with her teeth, the end snapped off in her mouth. Spitting it out, she glowered around the room, but as she watched, the pen repaired itself, ready for her next attempt. Sighing, she lifted the pen with what felt like too gentle a grip and finally put the tip to the taunting page before her.

The door opened with a bang, startling her into dropping the pen once more. Cloying self-satisfaction flooded her senses. (Though it was Potter's self-satisfaction, and she'd tasted worse things.) "You could have knocked," Tommie hissed, turning to face her visitor. "But you've brought food, so I suppose I shouldn't complain too much." The scent of the meat made her mouth fill with saliva.

Potter unceremoniously dropped the meat in front of her. "What have you been doing?" she asked. Tommie took a large bite to put off answering. It tasted as uninspiring as ever.

*

Harriet wasn't sure what she expected to see on opening the door to the Room of Requirement, but Riddle crouching over a piece of paper, with a fountain pen poking from between her teeth, wasn't it. Riddle dropped the pen, swiveled about, and glared. Her rebuke did nothing to dampen Harriet's strange contentment. "What are you doing?" she asked, putting down her parcel of food and watching in morbid fascination as Riddle tore into it.

Riddle chewed for a while, ignoring Harriet. With a huff, Harriet thought about a comfortable armchair and settled into the one that appeared behind her.

"I was writing," Riddle replied at length as she finished the meat, cleaning the blood from her face and paws the way any cat would.

"Oh, what about?" Harriet asked, eagerly leaning forward to see the results of the pen-in-the-mouth method. Riddle instantly moved to cover the paper, but not before Harriet noted the dearth of text.

"None of your concern," Riddle growled.

"It is kind of my concern, though," Harriet said, realizing with a twinge that what Hermione had done with Skeeter could dictate how she proceeded here, too—in spirit, at least. "I'm going out of my way to help you. If we succeed, I want something out of this. Therefore, I wish to know what you plan to do."

"I'm writing letters to potential allies," Riddle admitted, after a moment of awkward silence.

"Allies for what goals? Furthering the Pureblood cause?"

"No," Riddle said shortly. "Something far greater, as I believe I explained two days ago."

Harriet's heart sank. So Riddle planned to pick up where she'd left off fifty years ago, wherever that was. "You want to found a just utopia for everyone who deserves it," she guessed. "That sounds less like 'politician' and more like 'revolutionary'."

"Indeed." Riddle rose to her paws and approached Harriet's chair. "Does that frighten you, Potter? Does that strike terror into your heart of hearts?" She stopped, nearly nose to nose with her. "Do you regret so stupidly offering to help me?"

"I could leave you here, you know," Harriet mused, sitting stiffly. "Let you rot here in the castle. Tell them where to find you so they can send you back where you came from."

"You could," Riddle agreed. "But your sense of decency won't allow it. It wouldn't matter if I told you that I killed people before I was cursed. You'd still help me because you'd view it as a quest to save me in every way you can."

Somehow, Harriet wasn't surprised by Riddle's quasi-admission, since it fit with the image of Riddle the Revolutionary. She decided to play ignorant for now. "Don't presume to know me. We only just met, after all."

"So brave," Riddle mocked. "You are an open book, Harriet Potter."

"Am I?" Harriet asked. "If you can read me so easily, why did I compete in the Tournament?"

"Pride," Riddle said without hesitation. "The thrill of danger."

"No," Harriet replied shortly. "Not even close." Riddle tried to hide her reaction, affecting an impassive expression, but Harriet saw her flash of surprise.

"I have something that might be useful to you," Harriet said, coming to a decision that had the potential to be quite amusing and served to adeptly change the subject.

"What would that be?" Riddle asked warily, padding away from Harriet's chair and sitting by her stack of paper.

With a flourish, Harriet produced the Quick-Quotes Quill. "I don't know if this will act as a straight Dicta-Quill, but you could give it a try. If it doesn't work, I'll pick one up for you tomorrow." Better to know what sentiments Riddle wanted her to believe she held than to wait for her to master the use of a pen, with which she could write what she wished, and likely find a way to distribute it.

"How kind of you," Riddle replied, not sounding remotely fooled by her show of generosity. "Let's give it a try, shall we?" Harriet dropped the quill on Riddle's paper, at which it immediately stood upon its nib, quivering. "Promising," Riddle noted.

“'To whom it may concern, I hope you burn in hell,'" Harriet tried. The quill dashed across the page, writing verbatim what she said. It added a parenthetical aside at the end: "A letter to an enemy that doesn't pull punches."

"What the hell?" Riddle snapped, swiping the quill onto the rug. "How do these work, anyway?"

"No idea," Harriet admitted. "I was hoping to figure that out."

"Dicta-Quill it is, then," Riddle crowed. "Oh, but do keep this."

"I had no intention of abandoning it."

"You intrigue me, Potter," Riddle purred as Harriet rose to leave. "There is much I wish to learn about you."

"The feeling is not mutual."

"Oh, it will be," Riddle purred, a dark promise in her eyes. Harriet closed the door firmly behind her, wondering what on earth Riddle's final statement could mean for her. She couldn't deny the sphinx's beauty, or the faint air of bereavement she could sense. So yes, she wanted to help Riddle, despite her misgivings. Riddle hadn't been wrong about that. But as for Riddle being interesting... What was interesting about towering ambition?

And yet Riddle sounded almost... hungry—for her, and Harriet knew she should be afraid.

 _Bring it o_ n, Harriet thought.


	5. Impermanence

She'd royally screwed up, and she knew it. Rarely had an attempt at intimidation gone so awry. After Potter left, Tommie paced the room: Round and round, change direction, round and round some more. When she tired of that, she ripped apart some cushions the room conjured in a flurry of stuffing and feathers. But even property damage failed to calm her burning self-reproach. (The cushions instantly repairing themselves did not improve her mood. If she was going to glory in destruction, she wanted it to be permanent, like premeditated murder.)  
Oh, how she wanted to leave this place, to revisit her old haunts and explore the world that had left her behind.

"Ready to go?" Potter strode through the door the mext morning, again without knocking, a dark wooden trunk floating behind her.

"Once I've eaten."

"Of course. I didn't forget about that." Potter dropped today's parcel of meat without ceremony, sitting upon her trunk and studying her bitten-off nails as she waited for Tommie to finish.

As she ate, Tommie scrutinized Potter (her favorite activity of late). Her grief at leaving Hogwarts was muted, overladen as it was with dread. For what, Tommie didn't know. (Somehow, she doubted it had much to do with her. Unfortunate, really. That would need to change.) Potter had put on Muggle clothes: A plain gray T-shirt and black trousers. (Oh dear, was Potter a Mudblood? If so, then damn''') She'd tucked her hair haphazardly behind her ears, where it refused to stay. "I presume we aren't taking the train," Tommie said hopefully.

"Absolutely not," Potter replied. "I have things to do today, and compartments are cramped enough already without adding an invisible sphinx to the fun."

"Good. How will we be going, then?" Tommie asked.

"Apparition, of course." Potter was not happy about this, her distaste bitter in Tommie's throat. "So, er, let's get it over with as soon as we can."

"Fine." Tommie stood, stretching and fluffing out her fur. Potter Disillusioned her—more gently this time, and they left the room side by side.

The corridors were eerily silent. Most of the students must have already left for the train. That was quite all right with Tommie; it meant she could appreciate the sights and smells of her one true home mostly unobstructed. The statues and suits of armor they passed were exactly as she remembered. She didn't see a single new portrait; every one they passed was as snobbish and... annoying... as they had been on her first day in the castle. This was reassuring in a way, but at the same time vexing. Hogwarts was a ghost of its own past, a relic to an age that needed to be put to rest once and for all.

A gray cat poked its head out from behind a suit of armor and hissed ferociously, glaring balefully at the spot Tommie stood, then turned its ire upon Potter. "Oh, get the fuck out of my way," Potter snapped, with relish. "I'm leaving for good, all right?" The cat swiped at the air with unsheathed claws, then scampered away down the corridor and out of sight.

"I won't miss her," Potter groaned. "She's the caretaker's cat. Between her stalking and his misanthropy, people get detention for pretty much anything." Tommie huffed a laugh. The rest of their trek through the castle was peaceful until—

"Miss Potter!" Oh dear, it was Dumbledore, dressed in an outrageous set of purple and green striped robes, radiating gentle concern and goodwill as he approached them. Tommie stiffened, and moved so that she crouched directly behind Potter.

"Hello, professor," Potter said, admirably suppressing her sharp annoyance.

"Leaving so soon?" he asked.

"On the contrary, professor, most of the others have already departed."

"Forgive me," he returned. "I would have thought one such as yourself would linger for a bit to enjoy the castle fully one last time."

What was Dumbledore implying? He'd often said passive aggressive things in this vain to Tommie herself...

"I can assure you, professor. I've gotten my fill, for now." Tommie noted the tenseness in the line of Potter's shoulders. Potter's annoyance, meanwhile, was steadily morphing into a simmering anger. Delicious...

Dumbledore didn't seem to notice. "Indeed? In that case, I won't keep you." He gave her a swift, patronizing pat on the shoulder. "But remember, Miss Potter: I will be watching your career closely. Good luck." There was no twinkle in his eyes. They had gone hard, glacial. Yet to Tommie's confusion, she could sense no evidence of this, merely the same concern. Ah... So this was why she'd always been wary. The old goat had more tricks up his sleeves than she'd ever suspected.

"Thank you, sir. Goodbye." Potter walked past Dumbledore, who obligingly moved aside to let her pass. Tommie kept close and silent at Potter's heels, resisting the urge to swish her tail in agitation.

The grounds were blessedly peaceful as they strolled to the gates, both looking about to catch final glimpses of the lake (peaceful and glassy, a perfect mirror of the sky), the forest (dark and foreboding), and a faint view of the deserted Quidditch pitch (lonely and remote). Potter peered off into the distance longingly. "Come on," Tommie hissed. "I am not eager to run into Dumbledore again."

"Believe me, neither am I," Potter replied. "He's never been such an asshole to me before." They reached the iron gates, which swung open at their approach. They pushed eagerly through, and stood beyond them to take in one final sight of the castle, resplendent as always against the deep blue sky with its turrets and towers. "God, I'll miss it," Potter murmured. Tommie allowed herself to enjoy Potter's nostalgia, for it tasted so much like her own.

"Shall we go?" Tommie asked after a moment.

"I suppose." Potter opened her bag and removed a wad of silvery-gray cloth, which she proceeded to shake out.

"Is that an Invisibility Cloak?"

Potter nodded.

"Why do you need it?"

"We're Apparating into a heavily populated Muggle area, and I don't want to risk being seen by anyone."

"Muggle!" Tommie protested, her suspicions ratcheting up. "Where precisely did you say we were staying again?"

"My aunt's, but it's only for a couple days." Potter was far from pleased by this admission.

Tommie was even less pleased. "And you didn't think to tell me this sooner?"

"I knew you wouldn't like it, and it's the only option. But," Potter said with a grimace, "I could always leave you here for Dumbledore to find..."

Tommie growled with impotent rage. "I'll go with you."

"That's the spirit." Potter grasped her Lightened trunk in her left hand, then raised her arms. "I'm going to hold onto you while you stand on your hind legs."

"Oh please," Tommie sighed. Potter threw the Cloak over herself, and Tommie reared up to place her paws on Potter's shoulders. Potter's arms came around her in a tight embrace. "If you Splinch me, God help me if I don't rip you to shreds," Tommie promised. Potter's arms were warm about her, Potter's scent was heady— No, no. She hated this position, and wanted nothing more than for this to end.

Potter took several steadying breaths, her emotions entirely placid, the even movement of her chest making Tommie want to... stay right where she was, despite any discomfort. "We'll be fine," she said. With that, they turned on the spot and vanished into the suffocating tunnel of Apparition. Goodness, Tommie couldn't remember it being this bad...

The awful sensation let up at last, and Tommie looked about to discover they'd appeared in an alley between two aluminum-sided apartment complexes. "Home sweet home," Potter quipped as she eased Tommie off her. Hissing much like the gray cat in the castle, Tommie landed on all fours. Potter ignored this, stowing her Cloak back in her bag and leading the way out of the alley to a short flight of well-trodden steps. "Up these and to the right," she said.

Tommie padded stiffly after Potter, wishing she'd been aided by a far richer Pureblood sort. None of this wandering about Muggle residential areas. She'd had quite enough of that in her life already.

"In," Potter murmured, unlocking a somewhat scratched door with a dull brass number seven on it. "It's Saturday, so I expect both my aunt and cousin will be here."

Ah, yes. Tommie could feel the uninteresting, lazy contentment of two people enjoying a quiet summer day. It sharpened noticeably into displeasure as Potter walked inside.

"Hello, Aunt Petunia, Dudley," Potter greeted the two people sprawled upon the sofa.

"Hey, Potter," the broad-shouldered, blond young man with watery blue eyes and who appeared to be around Potter's age, mumbled, waving briefly over the back of the couch. He turned immediately back to the television, which Tommie observed to be in full color. Strange... What else had changed during her absence?

The woman—thin, horse-faced, and with hair to match her son's—actually bothered to get up. She grasped Potter's hand in greeting, then nodded toward a short hallway. "Your bedroom is exactly how you left it," she said.

"Thanks," Potter replied, starting to leave the room.

"You know, you don't have to move out so soon," Potter's aunt said awkwardly. She did not want Potter to stay here at all, but made the offer out of some sense of familial courtesy, if her dull-flavored indifference was anything to go by.

"Oh, that's all right," Potter returned. "I'll be out of your hair by Wednesday, and then you never have to see me again, if you want."

"Right," her aunt said. "I suppose I should congratulate you on winning that competition you were in."

"Yeah, maybe." Potter walked swiftly down the hall, and opened the door to the first door on the left. "Bit dusty," she quipped, wrinkling her nose and sneezing explosively. She Vanished the dust with a twitch of her wand, and stepped fully inside. Tommie entered after her, and Potter closed the door, sighing. "Well, that could have gone worse."

"Could it?" Tommie murmured. "I'd rather not imagine how." Potter didn't respond. She removed the Disillusionment Charm and put up a Silencing Charm, sitting on the bed heavily once she'd finished, the mattress giving an ear-splitting squeak in protest.

"You aren't a Mudblood, are you?" Tommie asked pointedly. Why hadn't she bothered to ask before? An odd sense of familiarity left her ill-at-ease.

"Are you really trying to antagonize me right now, after I brought you here?" Potter grumbled. "No, I'm not Muggle-Born."

"Half-Blood, then."

"That's right." Potter sounded ambivalent. Tommie's déjà vu increased.

"Funnily enough, I'm not trying to antagonize you," she said flatly. "It's just that I, too, am Half-Blood and Muggle-raised."

Potter was unimpressed. "Okay. Look, I'm going to head over to Diagon Alley to pick up your Dicta-Quill and meet a couple associates. I'll be leaving the window open for my owl, so don't do anything to piss her off when she gets here. You'll be able to entertain yourself while I'm gone?"

"Do I have any choice?"

"Suppose you don't." Potter left the room eagerly, calling brief farewells to her relatives as she closed the front door behind her.

Well, alone in a cramped space again...

She wanted to run, to feel the wind through her fur, to enjoy the glory of the hunt, to tear live prey to pieces with her claws.

No, no. That wasn't it! She needed to focus, to ignore the insistent keening of the feline's mind. Did the curse intentionally make the animal brain so difficult to ignore?

Potter's scent clung to her coat. Well, in that case... Tommie was never petty. Truly. So naturally, the proper revenge for Potter's manhandling was to lay on her bed, getting dark fur all over the blankets in the process.

Perfect.

Too bad the mattress was terribly springy... and squeaked loudly when she rolled over...

"You look comfortable, Riddle."

Tommie woke to find herself sprawled unceremoniously on the floor, Potter standing over her, wand in hand, her eyes alight with mirth. A large snowy owl perched on Potter's desk, glaring suspiciously.

"Bitch," Tommie growled.

Potter actually had the nerve to laugh. "I couldn't resist. You looked so peaceful... in a manner of speaking."

Tommie's tail twitched.

"What does it mean when your tail moves like that?" Potter asked, settling on the bed Tommie was so recently forced out of.

"It means that I am unutterably pissed off," Tommie replied shortly.

"Oh, that's too bad," Potter said. "Maybe something I bought for you will help, hmm?" With a flourish, she produced a beautiful, black-and-gold Dicta-Quill. "It made me think of you when I saw it," she admitted. "Looks a lot like an arrogant bastard, doesn't it?"

"I will not dignify that with a response," Tommie sighed. "Thank you, I suppose."

"Whatever." There was an awkward silence, in which Potter sorted through her myriad purchases—joke shop paraphernalia and parchments, mostly—while Tommie watched, and the owl drank noisily from its water bowl.

"That's Hedwig, by the way," Potter informed her, catching Tommie's glance toward the owl. "You ignore her, she'll ignore you." It almost looked as though the owl nodded in agreement.

"Ah, okay."

As she continued sorting, Tommie noted that Potter's hands were deft, precise. Her fingers were stubby—definitely not musicians’ fingers—but they were wiry.

"See something you like?" Potter asked.

"Can't say," Tommie admitted. "You look like a Quidditch player, and I've never had much interest in them."

"You wound me," Potter said, dramatically clutching at her heart. "I am so much more than just a Quidditch player. I am the winner of the Triwizard Tournament and the Hogwarts dueling champion three years in a row."

"Is that so?" Well, now, that last bit was interesting...

"I also captained the Gryffindor Quidditch team to the Cup last year— Well, they canceled Quidditch this year, but I'm sure we would have won the Cup again. The team we put together was brilliant."

Ambitious, yet... too humble to be purely Gryffindor. And the way she emphasized her practical magical prowess left Tommie terribly intrigued. Bleeding-hearted Half-Blood or no, Potter had power. She could work with this... (The inexplicable fascination she felt for this girl was irrelevant, dammit.)

But first she needed Potter to trust her enough to confide in her. Sacrifices would need to be made...

*

The rest of Friday passed uneventfully, with a predictably maudlin Leaving Feast (heavy food, crying Hermione); a Seventh Year farewell party for the ages—with more booze than Harriet had ever seen at once, most of it generously provided by Aberforth—and she was pretty sure Ron, Dean, and Seamus had thrown her over their shoulders and paraded her around the common room, singing drunkenly about her victory to much applause; and a mad scramble by most students to pack (not Harriet this time, because she was far too stressed to let it wait).

And really, when she woke up on Saturday morning with the worst hangover she'd ever had, Harriet knew she shouldn't have been surprised. Aberforth's booze was high-alcohol content and way too good to be allowed in wide circulation (where the fuck did he get that stuff, anyway? He and his disreputable sources''').

"It's your own damn fault for drinking so much," Hermione groaned, cradling her own head. "I tried to warn you. I tried to break up the party at midnight, but no one listens to me anymore." She glowered down at her now pointless Head Girl badge.

"Ugh, you had a good run," Harriet assured her. "Those fourth years you chased off to bed were terrified."

"They were, weren't they?" Hermione laughed.

"Oh Merlin, shut up, both of you," Parvati pleaded. "Or find a fucking hangover cure."

"Ab sent some over with the booze," Harriet assured her, tumbling out of bed and finding the precious bottle buried beneath Friday's robes. "Two sips each ought to do it."

The four of them—Lavender having woken with an almighty groan as the rest of them bitched—passed the potion around.

"That tastes like shit," Lavender said fervently.

"Hey, but your headache's about 75 percent better, right?" Parvati sighed.

"More like 67," Lavender grumbled. "I hate all of you."

"We'll miss you too, Lav," Parvati replied. "Anyway, I'm out of here. Said I'd meet Padma in fifteen minutes."

"I, meanwhile, have a badge to return," Hermione said regretfully. "At least I think I'm supposed to return it. Professor McGonagall wasn't particularly clear."

"I have to... pick up something," Harriet hedged. "So, I guess this is goodbye."

"Guess so." The four of them hugged one final time, all of them looking around fondly at the room they'd shared for seven years.

And, well, wasn't that the most depressing goodbye ever.

After Dumbledore's third suspicious grilling in as many days, Harriet was ready to leave Hogwarts and return only when he was gone for good—dead, retired, she wasn't picky. She couldn't remember him being such a dick bef... Riddle didn't seem surprised by the confrontation, and that somehow made it worse. Riddle had been a wily Slytherin without scruples, so of course she and Dumbledore hadn't gotten along. But Harriet wasn't like that, had never been like that (as far as Dumbledore knew''').

And to make her Saturday absolutely fan-fucking-tastic, she had to Apparate while hugging Riddle like a... pet? or close friend? No, neither of those encompassed what they were. Distant acquaintances, reluctant allies, but never friends. (Harriet really didn't want to test Riddle's promise about what would happen if she were referred to as a pet again…)

Riddle's fur was... really soft. And she smelled like a cat, but not in a bad way. (Cats, when they were clean and well-cared-for, had a rather nice smell. Crookshanks did, anyway. And, fuck, she wasn't comparing Riddle to Crookshanks!)

And then to top off everything, she came back to Petunia’s from her trip to Diagon Alley—during which she'd upped her initial one-hundred-galleon investment in Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes to six hundred, thanks to her winnings—to find Riddle sprawled on her bed, sound asleep.

 _Ugh_ , she thought for the thousandth time as she watched Riddle breathe in and out, her expression curdled even in sleep. _What the hell was I thinking?_ Hedwig's reproachful hoot only confirmed her misgivings.

*

"Do you want to read?" Potter queried some hours later, as Tommie whispered useless drafts to her Dicta-Quill.

"Are you going to turn the pages?"

"Yes, but I'm done studying for the day, and I need to unwind. You may as well sit next to me and follow along." Potter showed her a hardcover novel she'd extricated from her trunk, lovingly dog-eared.

" _Villette_ , hmm?" Tommie said, interested. "That isn't what I expected..."

"Hermione hates it," Potter admitted, smiling. "Far too pessimistic, she claims. But I've always enjoyed it."

"Not much of an unwinding sort of book," Tommie mused. "I'd try something lighter. What other books do you have?"

"Tamora Pierce novels," Potter said, dropping several thin paperbacks onto the bed. "Published long after your time."

"Fine. I don't care." Tommie curled up next to Potter so as to see the text as Potter read it. They passed in peaceful silence for the next hour, the sun setting and leaving them in comfortable twilight.

"Alanna is very Gryffindor," Tommie concluded.

"Yeah... Hufflepuff, too. She had people that loved her while she was growing up," Potter said sadly. "Maybe that makes all the difference."

"I doubt it's that simple, Potter." The opening she'd been waiting for... "I'm an orphan, too, you know."

"I never told you I was," Potter replied sharply.

"No? And yet you live here with relatives that took you in because they had no choice."

"Petunia had a choice," Harriet snapped. "She chose to raise me rather than to stay married to her abusive, awful husband."

"Again, that is not much of a choice, and says far more about the state of her marriage than any feelings for you."

Potter clenched her teeth. "Who raised you, then?" Potter asked, peaked.

"The infinitely kind and generous matrons of Wool's Orphanage," Tommie replied caustically, "where I was an outcast and a freak." Oh, saying that was worth the taste of Potter's shock.

"Dudley always called me 'freak,' when we were younger. Then he and his friends would chase me and beat me up." Potter smiled humorlessly. "I learned to defend myself, all right. I think I even flew, once."

"I could make them hurt, if I wanted to," Tommie said unashamedly.

"Did they deserve it?"

"Who's to say? It certainly felt justified."

"You enjoyed it," Potter said, stiffly throwing the paperback onto her bedside table and watching Tommie closely. The intrigue she'd been waiting for was there at last.

"Would you turn me away if I did enjoy it?"

"Look, I know what you're trying to do," Potter said, resigned. "But we won't be anything after we break this curse. I help you, and you go on your way to take over the world, or whatever you can manage. That's it. We're not friends. We're not anything." They said no more that night, merely sleeping fitfully.

Sunday passed with little fanfare. They ate breakfast. Potter studied quietly. Tommie drafted letters to past supporters (Potter pretended to ignore this). Potter got into a loud argument with her cousin over the hot water ("Why the fuck is it okay for you to take forty-minute showers, you asshole!" "Fuck you, Potter!" "Would the two of you shut up!"). Tommie completed a letter to Abraxas Malfoy during the time Potter and her cousin fought, signing it as Lord Voldemort and feeling immense satisfaction. Abraxas had always been loyal. He'd be the perfect foundation for her new webs.

"Abraxas Malfoy is dead," Potter said, reading over her shoulder, the scent of her shampoo saturating the air.

"Is he?" Tommie blinked. How could that be? He was only in his early seventies... "No matter. I'll come back to this." But both of them knew she'd need Potter's help if she really had a chance.

"Were you in London during the Battle of Britain?" Potter asked, adeptly changing the subject.

"They evacuated us, of course, but it's still unforgivable that I was sent back to the orphanage at all during the summers." Tommie sighed bitterly. "Mudbloods in danger were no concern to anyone."

"That's not surprising in the least," Potter said. "And yet here you are on the side of the Purebloods. That doesn't make any sense!"

"The Purebloods have the power, do they not?" Tommie purred. "A just utopia is still my goal, no matter the means by which I get there."

"There's no justice in a path like that, not for the people who need help most," Potter said. "But you just want power, don't you? It doesn't bother you how you get it."

"You know me so well," Tommie said, smirking. "If only I knew you half as well."

"I'm not very interesting."

"I disagree! At least tell me how your parents died."

"That's not a small thing," Potter sighed. "It was an accident of some sort when I was three. Potions mishap. Blew up the house. I got lucky."

"Dramatic," Tommie said, attempting a sympathetic expression. "Fitting for someone with as much potential as you."

Potter glared, anger spiking. "I'd rather use the fame and connections I cultivate for myself than some fucked-up origin story."

"Of course. Forgive me. Is that why you entered the Tournament?"

Potter nodded. "In a nutshell."

Tommie smiled. "Seems my first impression really was quite far off. But what is it that you want, Potter?"

"For justice to be served, for society's proper order to be achieved." Potter parroted Tommie's words mockingly.

Oh, well. One day at a time...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Villette by Charlotte Bronte: amazing, very highly recommended.  
> Song of the Lioness Quartet: ditto.


	6. Restlessness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Clementine, the kitty I adopted two weeks ago.

Harriet's dreams during the wee hours of Monday were strange and disconcerting. In one, a (more or less) fully-human Tommie Riddle approached with open arms, wand twirling between her slender fingers, a wild glint in her obsidian eyes—whose pupils remained slits. In another, Harriet stood outside the door of the apartment she and Hermione were about to move into, her hands empty of both key and wand. When she knocked, Hermione shouted at her to go away and never return.

"Potter!" Riddle's rich contralto broke into her nightmares, her eyes flying open to find Riddle's face mere inches from her own.

"Wha—!" Harriet jumped back in surprise, hands coming up defensively. Startled by her reaction, Riddle fled back to her spot in the middle of the carpet (off-white shag that hadn't been replaced since the '70s), her tail flicking.

"Apologies," Riddle replied peevishly. "Your alarm went off ten minutes ago, and I'd hate for you to be late to sign for that apartment."

Harriet took several gasping breaths. "Thank you," she croaked. Riddle shifted uncomfortably. Why? They'd exchanged thanks before... Whatever.

"All right then," Riddle said awkwardly, crouching tensely, eyes hard. Harriet hurriedly dressed and left the room to make breakfast for them both. When she returned, requisite dishes in hand, Riddle had not moved.

"Is something the matter?" Harriet asked.

"Potter," Riddle began hesitantly. "Potter, you shouted my name in your sleep."

"I did?"

"And you absolutely wreaked of fear," Riddle added. "I am aware that I have done my best to intimidate you within the last few days, but even I recognize that such a fraught dynamic between us may not lead to the breaking of my curse."

"I'm sure it was just general anxiety," Harriet deflected. "I mean, you were only in one dream. Hermione was in the other, and she turned me away..." Harriet trailed off uncertainly.

"You did not shout about this... Hermione, however." Riddle actually sounded concerned. Harriet wished she could believe her apparent sincerity.

"What did I call you?"

"Riddle, of course." Riddle seemed to relax somewhat at this question: She extended her forelegs and rested her chin on a paw, still holding Harriet's gaze. "We aren't on first name terms, even in your head."

"Do you want us to be?" Harriet queried, not knowing as she asked what her own answer was.

"The exchange of first names usually implies less distance between people than that of token acquaintances," Riddle supplied.

"And we've been sleeping in the same room for two nights, with many more to come," Harriet added.

"Quite." They watched each other, waiting to see who would make the next move.

"I'm Tommie, then. But you know that." Riddle's—Tommie's—eyes dropped to examine her paws.

"I'm Harriet, I guess." Harriet smiled tremulously. "Don't know if meeting you is an honor, but it's definitely... something."

"Good," Tommie hummed. "I couldn't ask for more." She rose and padded deliberately closer. "Now then, you seem far more relaxed. You should be fine."

Harriet sputtered. "Is that all this entire conversation was, a convoluted ploy to calm me down before my appointment?"

"Why not?" replied Tommie evasively. "It worked, didn't it? No, you don't need to answer that. I can tell."

"Because of the empathy thing," Harriet guessed. "I studied up on a bunch of magical creatures before the Maze. Wasn't sure what they'd throw at us." Yes, she'd known about the sphinxes' ability to sense the emotions of others, but the implications were only now occurring to her... Damn, damn—

"Breathe, P-Harriet," Tommie said gently. "I can only sense your emotions. I cannot directly manipulate them. You have nothing to fear."

Harriet snorted incredulously. "You were a Slytherin. Emotional manipulation is your watchword. But you're right. There's nothing I can do about that." Harriet cleared away the remnants of their meal and gave her hair one last combing-through (it didn't help much). "Well, I'm on my way to hell. Wish me luck."

"I don't believe in luck. There is nothing that can possibly go wrong. Don't dwell on improbable scenarios."

Strangely, Tommie sounded a bit like Hermione, though more biting in her encouragement. Harriet rather dreaded their first meeting—if they ever met, that is. She settled on a brief nod in acknowledgment.

"When you get back, I'd like to go out. To a park or something of the sort."

"All right," Harriet agreed. "We can do that."

Harriet left her aunt's apartment in marginally better spirits than she'd woken up in. Aunt Petunia halfheartedly said goodbye while gathered her supplies for her receptionist job at a law firm, her face pinched in distaste. Dudley hadn't yet gotten up; his shift at the old bowling alley down the street didn't start until the afternoon (lucky bastard).

Harriet didn't bother Apparating today. She hopped on a bus, took it all the way to the end, transferred, and rode the next bus about five more stops. In total, the trip took close to an hour. (Scratch good intentions and her fear of Splinching. She was Apparating back.) Hermione met her at the corner, looking far too cheerful. (And why shouldn't she? She'd slept in, probably, because Apparition didn't unsettle her.)

"All right, let's do this," she said brightly, taking Harriet's hand. Harriet followed her mutely.

Their landlady was a middle-aged woman named Heather Pierce, whose light brown hair lacked even the faintest streak of gray. Her eyes were sharp, mouth set severely. "Good morning, girls," she said, shaking their hands firmly. "Now, this shouldn't take long at all. Review this contract, sign these, and we'll be set."

The first thing Harriet noticed—that hadn't occurred to her before—was the stringent set of rules about owning pets, namely a 50-pound deposit and a rather cryptic "pets are welcome, within reason" at the very top of the contract. "Hermione," she whispered out of the side of her mouth, tapping the form in question. "What are you going to do?"

Hermione signed the form without batting an eye, Crookshanks already noted on the page. "I think of everything," she whispered back. Uncertain, Harriet did the same but added nothing. Hedwig wasn't really much of a pet and wouldn't spend much time indoors, and Tommie—for all anyone else knew—didn't exist.

Just like that, it was over. Heather ushered them out of the leasing office with a friendly wave and a plea to call her if they had any more questions. Both promised they would and went on their merry way.

"Well, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Hermione asked as the two of them strolled along the sidewalk toward an ideal place to Disapparate—in this case, behind a Dumpster.

"No," Harriet allowed. "Um, I have an owl. What should I do?"

"Honestly, I wouldn't worry about it. Just make sure Hedwig goes hunting only at night. If Heather on anyone else sees her, we can Confund them."

Harriet grimaced. "I'd rather not have to. Confunding Muggles when it isn't absolutely necessary is still somehow technically illegal."

"Which is surprising, all things considered," Hermione agreed. "Fudge is such a pushover that anti-Muggle and anti-Muggle-born legislation gets signed off on like it's the 1920s all over again." They continued walking in silence for a moment. "Do you want to get lunch?" Hermione queried.

"Sure, I suppose." Harriet considered for a moment. "Yes, please. I want to ask you about something." Hermione might start to suspect about her sphinx problem, but she desperately needed theories about Riddle's curse.

"All right." Hermione grasped her arm. "Cheap fish and chips place isn't too far."

"But we're Apparating anyway," Harriet sighed.

"Indeed we are. If magic truly will make something easier, I'm taking advantage of it." Hermione turned on the spot, and the two of them entered the suffocating tube through spacetime. Apparition was the worst. Every. Fucking. Time.

The food was good, Harriet had to admit. She nibbled happily on a piece of fish, while Hermione sat across from her, eating with gusto, a book opened behind her plate. Smirking to herself, Harriet dropped a napkin over Hermione's page, causing her to raise her head and frown confusedly.

"Oh, sorry," she said, shame-faced, closing her book with a snap. "This is just really interesting stuff, you know?"

"What is it?"

"It's the definitive history of Muggle-born exclusion, written by a Muggle-born," Hermione said happily. "Only shop that sells it is that tiny bookshop on Knockturn Alley that everyone avoids. Anyway, this stuff is horrific, but fascinating. Did you know there were a bunch of voting rights demonstrations in the 1910s, coinciding with pro-women's suffrage demonstrations in Muggle society?"

Harriet nodded. "I did know that." She needed to know as much history as possible to establish the right context for what she was about to embark upon. And, well, Hermione wasn't the only patron of that bookshop. "But haven't you read that before?" Harriet was positive she'd seen this particular book lying around their dormitory within the past year.

"This is my third time," Hermione admitted. "I keep adding notes in the margins. There's just so much here to process."

"I'll bet." Harriet chewed contemplatively for a moment more. "Oh yeah. So, I was wondering if you knew anything about curses that require a particular sentiment to break. Sort of like, I don't know, Muggle fairy tales made real."

Hermione looked thoughtful. "I've read a bit. One kind depends upon the feeling of the one it's cast upon, while the other requires someone in addition to the target."

"How can you tell which is which?" Harriet asked quickly. "And don't they all require a third party to help break them?"

"I don't believe it's possible to distinguish them from the outside. That information resides with the caster and possibly with the target—if they were paying attention, that is. As for always requiring a third party, again, it probably depends." Hermione considered her. "Why do you want to know? Sentiment-based curses aren't on the NEWT. I'm not helping you cheat by telling you that."

"Idle curiosity," Harriet hedged.

"Hmm." Hermione bent down and removed a sheaf of parchment from her bag. "Here's the article Skeeter wrote up about the Third Task. Do you want to take a look? It seems good enough to me, but you should know what it says beforehand, probably."

Harriet took it. Hermione was right. It wasn't bad, though Skeeter managed to slip in several subtle but ultimately harmless digs at Hermione, "After exiting the maze, Potter was accosted violently by her close friend Hermione Granger" and "Is it possible that the worry expressed by Potter's associates could be construed as doubt in her many-times-demonstrated abilities?" most notable among them.

"Tell her to rephrase the 'accosted violently' bit," suggested Harriet. "It's rather obvious and unnecessary."

"Gladly," Hermione said, taking back the article and crossing out the offending phrase. "We'd best be going soon. I've got Ministry internship applications to start and you've got NEWTs to revise for."

Harriet nodded regretfully. "I like the atmosphere here. Laid back. Not even a bit demanding. Or... intentionally disturbing..." Time away from Riddle—Tommie, whatever—was a precious commodity, even if she was terribly interesting.

"What's been 'intentionally disturbing' recently?" Hermione asked in confusion.

"Oh, this and that," Harriet replied airily. "See you Wednesday, then."

"Yeah, see you," Hermione returned, and the two of them hurried outside to a lonely sheltered area near the Dumpster behind the restaurant—Apparition involved far too many Dumpsters, in Harriet's opinion—and Disapparated.

"I'm back," Harriet said unnecessarily, opening her bedroom door.

"Harriet," Tommie said ruefully. "Good. I'm ready to go out."

Harriet didn't need to be asked twice. "Okay, let's go."

"Just like that? No brief break after your ordeal?" Tommie seemed taken aback. "I thought I would need to wait at least an hour after you returned."

"A park is restful enough for me," Harriet said. "All I have to do is watch you run around. We both get fresh air..." Harriet suppressed a weary smile. "Besides, if we break this curse of yours, you'll never be able to repay me in kind. May as well milk this thing for all it's worth."

Tommie growled but looked distinctly impressed. "Surely there's something I can do for you in the meantime?"

"You can help me revise," Harriet decided, "but after the park. I don't want to ruin your run."

"How thoughtful." Tommie bared her teeth in a brief grimace. "And so we shall Apparate again."

Harriet sighed. "Unfortunately, the closest park isn't within walking distance."

"Of course." A Disillusionment Charm, walk to the front door and down the steps, arrangement of the Invisibility Cloak, and an uncomfortable embrace later, they Disapparated. For someone who purported to hate it so much, Harriet thought, she did it quite frequently.

The park itself wasn't all that impressive. The grass was scruffy and ill-kempt. The playground and swing set were old and falling apart, though the children frolicking about them didn't seem to mind. Harriet watched them for a moment with a fond smile. She'd been one of them, once, even if Dudley insisted on making her playtime miserable.

"This is far too small, Harriet," Tommie said at her shoulder. "I'm sure your Muggle-Repelling Charms will be more than adequate, but they won't make up for the... lack of space."

"Where should we go, then?" Harriet grumbled.

"Somewhere away from a city?" Tommie suggested.

Harriet sighed apologetically. "I don't know where to Apparate, in that case. Will this do in a pinch? I'll ask Hermione where she and her parents go on camping trips."

"Didn't you ever go with them?" Tommie asked in surprise.

"No. That would have tested Petunia's patience a bit much." Harriet considered for a moment. "She did let me spend time at Hermione's house, but it wasn't much."

"And yet you still had someone looking out for your interests," Tommie said flatly. "How unfortunate for you."

Anger rose in Harriet's chest. "She didn't give a damn about me. Do you want to run or to just piss me off?"

Tommie nodded eagerly. "I'm sorry for offending you."

"It's... it's okay." Harriet began to walk in a fairly wide circle, casting Notice-Me-Not, Silencing, Disillusionment, and Muggle-Repelling Charms around her, covering a wider area than the circle in which she walked. The magic flowed from her wand in comforting waves, as easy as breathing. The completed charms left a faintly visible haze in the air, though she suspected it was only visible from this side. Slightly winded, she removed the Disillusionment Charm from Tommie, who was inspecting Harriet's handiwork with a critical eye. She nodded, satisfied.

"You haven't disappointed me yet," she admitted grudgingly, and began to run. Her movements were fluid, hair flying out behind her, paws falling with deliberate grace. Harriet found it difficult to look away. This was the first time she'd really bothered to study Tommie in the sun. Her fur appeared brown indoors, but now faint gold flecks could be seen. Shaking her head, Harriet settled beneath a tree and pulled out flashcards of potion ingredients. Time to review the properties of wolfsbane and powdered unicorn horn and sopophorous beans and whatever else...

*

The wind in her fur felt exactly as she imagined. It was the only thing to claim that distinction, however.

Her eyes were inexorably drawn to where Harriet sat, her head buried in her notes. Even the brat's boredom was attractive.

Running as a whole felt different than it had before, as though something had been lost or gained between this moment and the last time...

No time for thinking. Run...

*

Studying in the park was a great idea, or so she'd assumed. That was why she currently doodled aimlessly on her notepad as she watched the sphinx's progress. Tommie was unadulteratedly wild now; there was nothing in her movements to suggest she had ever been anything but a sphinx. A bird flew a little too close, and she batted it out of the air with sheathed claws. She then proceeded to gut it in a mess of blood and feathers. Harriet wished she could turn away from the gruesome spectacle but didn't out of morbid fascination.

Sensing her stare, Tommie raised her head from her prey and smiled, lips pulling back over her sharp teeth. Harriet blushed, and buried her head in her notes once more. God, the next two days were going to be interminable.

"Am I distracting you?" Tommie asked, flopping into the grass beside her.

"I'm allowing myself to be distracted," Harriet snapped.

"We can't have that. I don't want you to do badly on my account." Tommie rose. "Maybe you should try running for a bit. It does wonders for the mind."

"Why not?" It really wasn't a bad suggestion. It's just that she would much prefer to fly, which she certainly couldn't do here; she hadn't thought to bring her broom along.

"I'm in need of a new activity, anyway. Why don't you race me?" Tommie looked frighteningly excited at this prospect.

Harriet pushed her notes into a haphazard pile and stood up, stretching. "Yeah. Sure, I guess."

They marked the starting point with a decorative boulder and the finish line—just behind the starting point—with a fallen branch. ("Those might move around if one of us kicks them," Tommie cautioned. Harriet obligingly placed Sticking Charms on both.)

When Tommie said, "go" without much inflection, they both hared around the circle outlined by Harriet's charms, neither all that interested in losing. Harriet couldn't much compete with Tommie's speed, and so conjured a flock of canaries to distract her. Tommie, ignoring the canaries, cut across the center of the circle, clawed her way partway up Harriet's studying tree, and jumped. "You dirty cheater!" Harriet protested, her words coming in explosive pants.

"Those canaries weren't cheating?" Tommie growled back, stopping behind the tree branch with a satisfied smirk.

Harriet ran her fingers through her hair in exasperation. "Yes, but there was no way in hell I had a chance." Honestly, she hadn't conjured the canaries just to cheat. She'd also wanted to see Tommie pounce again. ... Fucking hell, what was wrong with her?

"How about a different game?" Tommie suggested. "You run the circle, and I'll watch. Seems only fair after the way you were ogling me."

"Maybe tomorrow," Harriet replied, annoyed—whether at herself or at Tommie, she couldn't tell. "I'm ready to go. I'm not getting much of anything done here."

"You've done plenty today," Tommie murmured. "Don't stress so much." Harriet couldn't tell if she was being mocked or encouraged.

"What's your suggestion, then?" she asked.

"Tell me about the Malfoys and then have some genuine fun on your own."

"And leave you here?"

"No, no," Tommie snorted. "I rather enjoy the opportunities your bedroom presents."

Harriet blinked. What?

Tommie looked confused (and a bit embarrassed), too. "That sounded rather suggestive, didn't it? It was unintended, I promise you. Forgive me."

"Okay." If she wasn't mistaken, a sphinx was flirting with her without realizing what she was doing. What had her life come to? "Let me get this straight. You want me to tell you about the Malfoys, so you can keep plotting while I unwind."

"Precisely."

"Sounds good to me," Harriet said. "Let's go." Once again, they did the embrace thing. In comparison to that, the Apparition itself was bearable.

As soon as they arrived back in Harriet's room, Tommie said, "talk, and tell me everything you can."

"Don't know how much good knowing anything about the Malfoys will do you," Harriet protested. "I mean, what do you have that would interest them? Maybe you're a genius or whatever, but they've likely never heard of you and have everything they could possibly want already."

"That doesn't matter," Tommie hissed. "I still need to know what I'm up against, once my curse is gone."

"Fine." Harriet was pretty certain that that date was a very long time in the future, considering how little they had to go off of. "Abraxas's son is named Lucius. He's got his fingers in a lot of pies and definitely has the current Minister's ear... and possibly other things as well. Anyway, most of the laws that pass in the Wizengamot go through him, so I expect you would like what's happening now very much indeed."

"Mudbloods'''?" Tommie asked, head tilting inquisitively.

"Are still second-class citizens. Half-breeds like werewolves and such are even worse off." Harriet couldn't keep the bitterness out of her voice.

To her surprise, Tommie looked contemplative rather than pleased. "And where is the popular sentiment?" she queried. "With these developments or against them?"

"You asked about the Malfoys specifically," Harriet reminded her. "And I can tell you that the majority hates wealthy Pureblood elites like them but can't—and won't—do anything about it. Dumbledore is supposedly the hero of Muggle-borns and creatures, yet he does nothing."

"Interesting." Tommie went over to her stack of parchment and the Dicta-Quill. "Things have certainly changed more than I expected. The power resides with the Purebloods now, but it won't last when the rest decide to push back."

"It would take someone with a lot of public acclaim speaking up for any meaningful change to happen." Harriet wanted to laugh outright. Hell, talking out her plans like this was fun.

"No doubt," Tommie mused. "I still intend to write to this... Lucius Malfoy."

"Fine," Harriet replied carelessly. "I'm going flying... invisibly, of course."

Tommie nodded disinterestedly, and Harriet left with a new spring in her step.

Tuesday passed much the same as Monday (minus anxiety-inducing activities but still with trippy dreams), culminating in another extended visit to the park  
and more half-assed studying.

"Watching you attempt to focus is painful for me," Tommie quipped as they returned from the park and Harriet began packing for the next day, out of frustration as much as necessity. "For both our sakes, don't spend so much time on things you definitely know."

"But it's theory," Harriet protested. "I've always had problems with theory."

"You have, what, three weeks?"

"Yes," Harriet replied hesitantly.

"So come back to that in a while and tell me more of what I want to know."

"Like what?" Harriet asked dubiously.

"Does Lucius Malfoy have any children? An heir, perhaps, more open-minded than he?"

Harriet grimaced. "Yeah, he's got a kid all right. Draco. He was in my year and is a complete bastard."

"Malfoys usually are," Tommie agreed. "Abraxas may have been an exception, but even he had his moments."

"Was he a friend of yours?" Harriet wondered.

"Perhaps," Tommie murmured. "I've never been much in the business of friends. I would rather have people follow me out of respect for my abilities than because of misplaced sentiment."

"That's not sustainable," Harriet said, feeling a sudden pity for this strange woman. "Friends stick with you, even when you screw up or humiliate yourself."

Tommie shook her head. "Even if I'd had 'friends,' fifty years have passed. I'm quite alone—without any sort of organization..."

Harriet gave her first genuine smile during their acquaintance. "Then change your policy and truly start over. What have you got to lose?"

"What have I got to lose?" Tommie echoed. "What, indeed."

Silence fell between them as Harriet finished her packing. "I can't wait for tomorrow," Harriet finally muttered, pushing down the overarching feeling of dread that came over her when she thought about Tommie too long.

"Neither can I," Tommie agreed. "Neither can I." Her smile was jagged as shattered glass.

*

Hermione brimmed with excitement. Skeeter's final edit was exactly what she asked (it was the front page of yesterday's _Daily Prophet_ ) and today was the day she and Harriet would move into their lovely apartment. She'd packed all her books in a bag with an Undetectable Extension Charm—one could hardly tell she had so many, then received two beautiful new hardcovers from her parents as going-away presents.

"Got this one on a whim," her mum said, resting her hand on a volume of cynically annotated fairy tales, complete with index. "Academic, yet fun. You know? Everyone needs fun in their lives."

Hermione nodded enthusiastically and hugged her tightly. "Thanks," she said.

"Don't mention it, sweetheart," her mum replied, patting her on the back. "Now, are you ready to go? Want me to come with you?"

"I'm ready. Moving's a breeze with magic, so you don't have to..."

Her mum laughed. "We'll drop by later, to see how you're settling in."

Moments later, standing outside the open door with the key replaced in her pocket, Hermione wished briefly that her mum had come with her to make the apartment a bit less lonely until Harriet arrived. But, well, she was here now, so... in she went, closing the door quietly behind her. Crookshanks made an angry chirping sound from within his carrier. "Hold on, babe," she said reassuringly. "I'll let you out in a few minutes." He meowed again, unconvinced.

The rooms were clean and empty, except for a couple furniture boxes haphazardly spread throughout the front room. Hermione smiled in relief. They'd been delivered this morning without any difficulty. With a flick of her wand, she unpacked the table and chairs, as well as an old sofa. Crookshanks sniffed about suspiciously when she opened his carrier, his ears back and ginger fur bristling. "You're ridiculous," she told him. He glared and continued his exploration.

A series of firm knocks sounded at the door. Hermione eagerly abandoned her inspection to answer it. Harriet stood outside, face screwed up in annoyance, arms crossed tightly over her chest. "What's got your pants in a twist?" Hermione asked.

"Nothing," Harriet said. "It's been a long morning." She glowered over her shoulder.

"Any grand farewell gestures from your aunt and cousin?"

Harriet merely snorted in response.

"Well, come inside," Hermione urged. "I got a book of fairy tales from my mum that you might find interesting."

"This ain't no fairy tale," Harriet said darkly, striding purposefully across the threshold and dragging her trunk with magic-aided ease. She waited an extra second before closing the door behind her, which Hermione found slightly odd.

Crookshanks came running across the room as Harriet entered, his tail fluffed to twice its size, hissing louder than Hermione had ever heard. "What on earth?" she cried.

Harriet, meanwhile, was trying—and failing—to appear surprised. As Crookshanks shifted from hissing to growling, her expression settled into obvious anxiety. "I'll just put this stuff in my room, shall I?" she said shakily. As she disappeared down the hall, Crookshanks slunk beneath the sofa, his yellow eyes gleaming from the shadows.

"What is it?" Hermione asked gently, kneeling beside the sofa and sticking a hand underneath toward the crouching cat. He nuzzled her fingers before heading deeper into his hiding place.

Deciding to let Crookshanks have time to himself, she followed Harriet's trajectory to the second of the two bedrooms, which was shut and locked. "Harriet!" she called. "Is everything all right in there? Crookshanks is probably just nervous about the new place. I'm sure it's nothing personal."

"Everything's fine," came the muffled reply. "I'll be out in a moment."

"Okay. Take your time." Hermione went into her own room. Arranging it took hardly any time at all. Magic was great, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the comments and kudos. They mean a lot.


	7. The Private Life of T. M. Riddle

"I thought my capacity for surprise had reached its limit," Tommie said, interrupting Harriet's beautiful demonstration of a large-scale object-to-animal Transfiguration (her desk into a horse and back). They'd been in the apartment with Hermione for a week now, and Tommie couldn't say she was unhappy with her current situation. She had reading material (an ecclectic mix of Muggle fiction and Harriet's myriad magical interests), drafted letters of introduction to be sent to potential allies, and, above all, an entertaining host.

"What do you mean?" Harriet asked, setting aside her wand with a satisfied sigh and wiping the thin sheen of sweat that collected on her forehead with her sleeve.

"Your friend's cat seems to have developed a liking for me." Damn, she'd lost her nerve. Again.

"You mean he's stopped hissing every time my door is opened," Harriet laughed.

"I've never had luck with cats, even before I was cursed," Tommie said, smiling in return. "A lack of hissing is definite progress. It suggests he no longer views me as a threat to his position."

"Hmm." Harriet was unconvinced. "Whatever. Hermione's still suspicious."

The words Tommie meant to say smashed against her teeth, struggling like trapped birds. Harriet frowned at her for a moment. "You're unusually, er, expressive. Looks a bit like you're choking. Are you okay?"

There was genuine concern there that Merlin knew Tommie didn't deserve. "Hermione," she finally spat.

"What about her?" Harriet asked, her eyes narrowing.

"You and her," Tommie said, suddenly wrong-footed. "Your relationship with her. I don't understand it." There. She'd managed to say it and wished she hadn't.

"What is there to understand?" Harriet said gently, defensiveness fading into what tasted like pity. "We're friends. Have been for seven years now."

"How did it come about?" There was such an ease in the way Harriet spoke of her. Whatever they had, it was based entirely on affection… not just what they could do for each other. Tommie feared she could never compete… not that she wanted to, exactly. Though what she did want remained… indecipherable.

"We met on the Hogwarts Express, found we had a bit in common as Muggle-raised kids in a strange world, and went from there." Harriet smiled in remembrance.

"That's it?" Why must people's standards for potential companions be so low? (But rarely did people control such things, influenced as they were by time and place.)

"No." Harriet sat cross-legged next to Tommie. "Our friendship has changed and grown as we have. Some things stay the same, some things don't. We don't agree about everything—hell, we actually turned out to have really different backgrounds, but we've gone through too much together to abandon each other when we disagree."

"This is what you were referring to when you said I should find friends rather than followers." Tommie couldn't hold in her skeptical snort (what indignities this girl brought out).

"Pretty much. Hermione's got my back, and I've got hers—even if one of us gets Transfigured into a sphinx or worse."

"I suppose I have no foundation to comprehend any of it," Tommie admitted. Sacrifices, she reminded herself. All of this will be for the best in the end, when Harriet needed her.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Harriet said.

"I don't want your pity," Tommie snapped. "Without this damned curse, I would have achieved all my goals. With followers. Without friends. I have no need for silly attachments."

"I could show you, erm, what friendship is supposed to look like, if you want," Harriet pressed. "I mean, maybe solving your riddle involves understanding something you never have before."

"Got that from one of Hermione's fairy tales, didn't you?" Tommie murmured. Harriet was steadily making her way through the massive anthology Hermione lent her the day they moved in, with comments aplenty about the treatment of women and the strange endings that passed as the (dreaded, impossible) happily ever afters.

"Maybe. It's worth a shot, though, don't you think?" Harriet sounded sickeningly hopeful. The flavor reminded Tommie of flowers in springtime, a season that never brought anything good (the curse, Hogwarts's near closure when she'd acted rashly''').

"What exactly would this entail?" she asked, suppressing a shudder—of disgust, she assured herself.

"Well, you know, almost exactly what we've been doing, except with more straight-up fun activities and a few more heart-to-hearts." Harriet's excitement assaulted Tommie's senses—sharp and fresh, and she smiled faintly.

"I am like a bug crawling on its belly at your feet, completely at your mercy," Tommie quipped, feeling like a broken record as she said it. "Do what you will." It wasn't enthusiastic assent, but it was the best she could muster.

"Great." Harriet withdrew a photo album from under a stack of textbooks. "Let's start with some pictures of Hermione and me and some other people I knew at Hogwarts." For the next few minutes, they went through the photos. Harriet and Hermione were featured most frequently, with a round-faced brown-haired boy, a small silver-eyed blond girl, and—once or twice—a red-headed girl that Tommie hated immediately. Blood Traitors, all of them, she guessed.

"Who is that girl?" she inquired, glaring at the ginger.

"Ginny Weasley," Harriet said uncomfortably, a faint blush tinging her cheeks. "She went to the Yule Ball with me."

Tommie blinked. "The Weasleys had a girl? That's unheard-of. And did you have a relationship with her afterward?" Perhaps it wasn't Hermione she should be concerned by.

"She's just a friend now, but she's had a thing for me for years." Harriet sighed. "She's great, but… I don't know."

"No one bats an eye at lesbian witches these days?" Tommie asked in some surprise—not that she'd ever cared either way. Succumbing to attraction, no matter the gender of the partner, spelled weakness.

"Not really. It's more like, if they ignore us, we'll go away. It's just a phase, and we'll grow up and get married and shit." Harriet grimaced. "I'm going to upend politics, and I definitely have no intention of doing any of that."

Tommie smiled at Harriet's phrasing. "You and me both, though I've never been attracted to anyone." Thankfully, else she would likely have to include hypocrisy amongst her few flaws.

"Never?" Harriet queried.

"Not sexually, at least," Tommie replied firmly. _As for this girl_ , she thought in annoyance, _she will be mine because I refuse to let her go_. She tried not to think too hard about why.

A couple nights later, Harriet proposed an activity.

"You want me to do what?" Tommie snapped, praying she'd misheard.

"Watch a film with me," Harriet repeated. "Hermione's at home tonight, so you may as well spend some time in the rest of the apartment and become familiar with hallmarks of popular culture."

"Fine, fine," Tommie grumbled. "But preferably not Muggle culture. I really don't care about it beyond some—hardly any at all, mind you—literature, since, as I'm sure you know, wizards have little to no imagination." (Muggle literature: beautiful, transcendent, and… magical. Damn wizards for their feeble brains!)

Harriet shuddered. "They don't. But you promised to humor me, so come on."

"I made a mistake," Tommie tried.

Harriet rolled her eyes. "Remember what I said about fun?"

Tommie furrowed her brows in mock concentration. "Seems to have slipped my mind," she purred.

Sighing in exasperation, Harriet ushered her into the front room. "Hermione's parents gave us this old television and a really crappy video player  
they dug out of their attic," she said, opening a small box containing what Tommie could only assume were films—packaged and sold to individuals affordably, which was endlessly strange to contemplate. "Let's see," Harriet murmured. "Documentaries… more documentaries… _The Private Life of Sherlock Holme_ s… huh?" She pulled a film out and stared at it.

"Absolutely not," Tommie said. "Sherlock Holmes is nothing more than hyperbolic Muggle wish fulfillment."

"Thank god," Harriet replied, relieved. "I've literally never heard of this one anyway." She dropped the offending film back into the box and pulled out another, examining it with a smirk. "As for this one…" Without further explanation, she inserted the film into the player and pressed PLAY.

Tommie watched in horror, curled up on one side of the couch. Animated animals danced across the screen to a terribly celebratory song. And there were lions… Why were there lions? "What is this drivel?" she hissed.

" _The Lion King_ ," Harriet chirped. "From across the pond. It's adorable. You will… probably hate it."

An hour and a half later, Harriet was proven correct. "The hyenas should have been the central characters," Tommie growled, trying to forget the (catchy) songs and the ridiculously flawed plotting of Scar, the single intelligent character, who didn't have the guts for kinslaying a second time—when it was arguably essential to success. "They certainly didn't leave loose ends." Vengeance was a beautiful sight.

"Somehow, I'm not surprised," Harriet groaned.

"And this exercise was supposed to be an example of… fun," Tommie continued. "I experienced only agony and discomfort." Well, except for watching Harriet's unbridled joy and then heartbroken tears at the death of Simba's father. For that, at least, the film was worth watching. Ah, and the murder of Simba's father… was wonderfully affirming.

Harriet's disappointment swamped her. "I'm sorry," she said quietly.

"I'm not finished," Tommie said, to her own confusion. "I enjoyed… your enjoyment. I am, therefore, willing to try whatever else you deem necessary for my introduction to your brand of fun and friendship."

Harriet blinked, her emerald eyes lightening. "Great," she enthused. "I have plans aplenty."

A few nights later, Harriet made another suggestion, though with much less fanfare. So much less, in fact, that Tommie didn't realize what was happening until it was too late to stop.

"Who told you that you were a witch?" Harriet asked, as she threw aside a thoroughly annotated list of difficult charms and ran her fingers through her chronically tangled ebony locks.

"Albus Dumbledore delivered my letter and threatened me with an illusion of my possessions going up in flames," Tommie replied. "Although it is true that I… reappropriated some of them from their original owners." Ah, what memories… She hadn't thought of such things in decades.

"Dumbledore's a stickler for convention," Harriet said. "Professor Minerva McGonagall talked to me. She taught my parents, and I'm glad it was her." Harriet looked wistful. "She was the one that told me how they died. Potions experimentation is more dangerous than most know."

"It is, at that." Tommie allowed herself an expression of what she hoped was gentle sympathy. "But McGonagall," she mused. "Minerva? She's a professor?"

"Of Transfiguration," Harriet confirmed.

"Naturally," Tommie laughed. "She had a mad attraction to Dumbledore while she was in school." _And me_ , Tommie thought with a smirk.

"I'll bet she did," Harriet said. "But seriously, Dumbledore hates you. What the fuck else did you do?"

Tommie considered her for half a breath. "I told him I could speak to snakes. I believe that clinched it." She could have said almost anything else, such as how Dumbledore was a generally wary individual… yet she chose something closer to the truth—at least, what she guessed to be truth.

"That's bullshit," Harriet spluttered. "I wish I were a Parselmouth. I mean, if I could have had snakes as friends growing up, I would have been way more well-adjusted."

Good god, she meant it. What a strange child. Although Muggle-raised sorts tended to be more open-minded concerning many things… Oh, why had she ever bothered with Purebloods? … No, no. She mustn't allow her thoughts to wander in tangled paths.

Her reply gave away nothing of her scattered contemplation. "I'm afraid serpents have little of note to say. As abilities go, Parseltongue isn't terribly useful." Except as a means to uncover secrets long-hidden…

"What would you consider to be more useful, then?" Harriet challenged playfully.

"Legilimency. Heightened empathy." Tommie rolled her eyes. "But we have spent far too long talking about me."

Harriet seemed to have moved on from their conversation anyway, for she was tapping her fingers, deep in thought. "You're a descendant of Slytherin, aren't you?" she guessed after too short a pause.

"And if I am?" Tommie cursed silently. Trying to impress this girl—not to intimidate, now—would be her doom.

"It explains a lot," Harriet said, picking up a book and neglecting to elaborate.

*

Tommie absolutely despised Hermione. Or rather, she disliked the time Harriet spent with her, only to return with a spring in her step and literally oozing contentment. Tommie could banter, could disturb Harriet's dreams… but she could not do what Hermione did.

The days passed. They ran through a forest (the Forest of Dean, as Harriet called it). They reminisced about Hogwarts (the Christmas dinners, the secret passageways, among other things). They ignored each other after they argued over trivial things (why elemental charms weren't classified as conjurations).

It wasn't enough. Tommie wanted more.

Something shifted within her during those sweltering July days, and fascination became… other. A shattering, an expansion in her chest… An entire world formed in her imagination, a world that she and Harriet made together, a world where Harriet smiled blissfully as Tommie brushed her lips against the corner of her mouth.

But Harriet was too pure, too good, too unlike Tommie. She would never toss aside her friends—never far enough away for Tommie to replace them.

perhaps she didn't need to.

*

"I can't do this!" It was the last night before Harriet's exams began. "I haven't done enough. Everything I've achieved was a fluke. I'm going to crash and burn in an epic fucking conflagration." Harriet sat hunched, her arms wrapped about her knees. Her notes lay in an untidy pile on the floor, exiled there in her self-reproach.

"Why not talk to Hermione about this?" Tommie queried.

"She's done so much already," Harriet sobbed.

Tommie felt it then, the first inkling of triumph. She quashed it and padded close to Harriet, close enough to touch. To her shock, Harriet threw her arms around her neck and buried her tear-streaked face into the fur of her shoulder.

She stiffened. Touches between them had thus far only occurred when they Apparated. The difference now was unquantifiable. "Take it from me, my dear," Tommie murmured, her cheek pressed against Harriet's apple-scented hair. "Your achievements are not flukes."

 _Don't let g_ o, she thought. The feline brain mewled at her to pace around Harriet's huddled form, rubbing her scent into every inch of her she could reach. But she ignored this and stayed still, waiting till Harriet's sobs subsided.

 _Mine_ , the lioness keened. _My darling_ , Tommie agreed.

Harriet took deep, gasping breaths, unaware of the turmoil she had unleashed. She pulled away, trembling. "I'm sorry," she said meekly. "I got you wet…"

There was slight dampness on the fur of Tommie's shoulder. "That's all right," she hummed, tasting the residue of Harriet's tears with a curious swipe of her tongue. (Mildly salty… What the devil was she doing?)

Harriet's face reddened. She whispered something almost too quiet for Tommie to catch: "This is so fucked up."

After Harriet went to bed, curling up in a tight ball with her head buried beneath her blankets, Tommie whispered, "It really is."

Tommie keenly felt Harriet's absence during the next few days. She listened to Hermione pacing and writing and crooning sweetly to her insufferable cat. She lay on Harriet's bed, idly batting at the occasional fly that escaped the oppressive heat by finding cracks to slip through in the apartment's walls. She imagined Harriet's happiest smile directed exclusively at her. She envisioned Harriet's eyes, gazing intently into her own.

Harriet returned in the late afternoons, carrying a heady mix of relief and nerves. "God, I can't wait until this is over," she said, stretching out in the precise spot upon her bed where Tommie had lain. "I'll have finished my education officially—no more technicality bullshit—and then we're having a party for the ages."

"A party?" Tommie parroted.

"Yes." Harriet smiled. "Friday night. It's a house-warming, NEWT-FINISHING, and birthday party rolled into one."

"Your birthday?"

"On the 31st. I'm turning eighteen."

Well, of course she was.

"There's going to be, you know, a few people here, so I'm sorry about that."

"I don't mind," Tommie lied quickly. "You deserve to enjoy yourself."

Thursday night was suddenly upon them. Harriet was jittery, cross-referencing History of Magic notes with a timeline that filled at least three rolls of parchment, then reviewing instructions for antidotes and the properties of poisons.

"Potions practical in the morning and History of Magic in the afternoon," she clarified at Tommie's disbelieving stare. "I'm taking six NEWTs, but they combined the herbology theory and practical to save time."

"Sensible. Why History of Magic?"

"That's obvious, isn't it?" Harriet murmured. "I need to have a good grasp on where we came from, so I can usher forth a better future."

"And why is your timeline so long?" From what Tommie could see, the writing was exceptionally cramped.

"I'm making arguments about both magical and Muggle history. They don't tend to ask about such things, but I'm sure my context will make sense to them. Though the truth is that I don't give a damn what some ancient, inbred Pureblood examiner thinks."

"Very good." And really, she was impressed… and satisfied.

Harriet was radiant at Tommie's tepid praise. "You're, like, the first person besides Hermione that cares about this shit," she admitted. "But you… really understand what I'm aiming for, in a way Hermione just doesn't."

"Revolution?" Tommie supplied.

"Revolution," Harriet agreed, her lips drawing back in an anticipatory grin.

And when faced with exactly what she wanted, Tommie Riddle began to have doubts.

"You're not naive," Tommie croaked. "You want what is right and good, yet you…"

Harriet merely listened, waiting.

The words tumbled from her mouth before she could properly think them through. "There are things you should know about me. Things that I would rather not tell you, but I must."

"Yes?"

"I committed my first murder when I was sixteen." She waited for half a breath, expecting Harriet to bolt, but she did not. "It was premeditated. Her name was Myrtle Warren. She saw something she shouldn't, and I found it easier to kill her than to Obliviate her. I committed my next murders within the month."

"Who'''?" Harriet whispered, her dread coating the back of Tommie's throat.

"My father and grandparents." Why was she doing this? "He never came to find me, and seeing him living in the lap of luxury while I had to fight tooth and nail for everything—"

Harriet's expression was inscrutable. "Is that all?" she asked.

"No." Tommie should have stopped there, should have lied. She did neither. "After I started working at Borgin and Burke's—just out of Hogwarts, I killed an old woman who possessed an heirloom that rightfully belonged to me, as well as another relic I desired. After her, I tracked down one of my childhood tormentors. Then there was an Albanian Muggle woman who was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Why?" Harriet turned away, her face buried in her hands. Was she crying? No, no. Her shoulders were still. Tommie could sense nothing now but a horrible absence of emotion.

"I do not deserve your help," Tommie continued, after the silence stretched and contracted and became tangible. "I am better off like this. The world is better off without me to influence it. And you— You—" _I don't want to get in your way or to hold your revolution back, beautiful girl_ …

"I what?" Harriet said, her voice flat.

"You are pure, and I don't want to ruin you." For if she did, then Harriet Potter would cease to be Harriet Potter and become someone wholly strange and other and wrong.

"No single person has the power to ruin me," Harriet snapped, "not even you." She stared into Tommie's eyes, an adorable wrinkle between her brows. Tommie imagined how it would feel to smooth it with a gentle touch of her hand.

"Good," she said. "May you remain so self-aware."

"I don't know whether to thank you or to pretend you never told me anything." Harriet said. "All the things you've done make it difficult to… look at a compliment objectively."

"I expect not." Tommie let her head drop against her curled forepaws. "I have meant every one I have given you, nonetheless."

"Okay." Harriet flopped onto her bed. "I need to get to sleep so I can concentrate tomorrow. I…" She drew her knees to her chest beneath her blankets. "I'm not going to throw you out. I know I should, but we've come this far."

"I'm sorry," Tommie rasped. What more could she say?

"I hope so," Harriet sighed and closed her eyes in exhaustion.

In the morning, Tommie watched listlessly as Harriet prepared to leave for her last day of exams. They exchanged no words. Harriet hardly spared her a glance. When she left, Tommie tried in vain to go back to sleep, deeply troubled.

*

"Good luck," Hermione called as Harriet left for her last day of NEWTs. Harriet waved.

A couple hours later, she felt it was time to put her suspicions to rest. She would have done it earlier in the week but didn't want to risk confronting Harriet about whatever it was while her exams were still in progress—Harriet didn't need that kind of stress and deserved the same sort of studying environment Hermione herself had had when she achieved her seven Outstandings.

So, Hermione approached Harriet's closed bedroom door, furtively looking over her shoulder. Crookshanks watched her curiously. "If I didn't know better," she mused aloud, "I'd say she was hiding a pet of some kind." Incidentally, she didn't know better. Crookshanks still sometimes bristled at strange moments and at others would crouch outside Harriet's door, mewing. Also there was that one weekend she'd come back from her parents' to find a bit of unfamiliar dark fur on the couch, on which Crookshanks eagerly curled up, his eyes closed in bliss.

Harriet's locking charm wasn't difficult to break. It was only a step up from Coloportus and was clearly meant as more of a request for courtesy than to keep anyone out. God, she shouldn't be doing this, but she had to know…

The door creaked inward on unoiled hinges. Hermione stepped inside and… stared. She blinked, then stared some more.

"What in the name of—"

"You can stop staring anytime," the sphinx—a fucking sphinx, in their apartment!—snapped.

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them, her hand itching to massage her forehead. "What is Harriet thinking?" she croaked.

At this, the sphinx laughed self-deprecatingly. "I wish I knew."

"But— How did she find you? Why is she keeping you here?" Hermione spluttered, a faint tremor in her voice.

"She's helping me break a curse," the sphinx replied. "Or she was…" Her head drooped.

"So, this is why she wanted to know about sentiment-based curses," Hermione realized. "You're not really a sphinx, are you?"

"It's been a long, long time," the sphinx replied cryptically. "Perhaps I'm better off like this."

Hermione didn't respond. What was she supposed to say?

"Frankly, I thought you would have discovered me sooner. From what Harriet has told me, I gathered you were immensely intelligent."

Hermione blushed. "Apparently not intelligent enough," she muttered. "I should have guessed ages ago. She's been acting oddly ever since the Third Task."

"That is, in fact, where we met," the sphinx confirmed.

"I just… Why would she agree to help you?"

"I am under the impression she thought it was the right thing to do. She didn't ask me for anything in exchange at the outset." A mystified expression crossed her face. "Although I suppose the numerous times she's hinted that this is too great a favor to ever be repaid makes it slightly more understandable."

Crookshanks chose that moment to pad into the room, purr rumbling in his chest. Hermione watched him weave around the sphinx, then settle in a contented ginger heap against her side.

"Little traitor," Hermione said warmly. "If he likes you, then maybe Harriet wasn't wrong to help you."

The sphinx raised a narrow brow. "So quick to trust your cat."

"He's never been wrong before," Hermione said. "What's your name, anyway? You never said."

The sphinx smiled. "I didn't introduce myself to Harriet, either. She discovered my identity on her own. But since you lack the resources that were available to her at the time…"

"Yes?" Hermione encouraged, leaning forward eagerly.

"Tommie Riddle. I am… pleased… to make your acquaintance."

"Oh my god!" Hermione gushed. "You were Head Girl in 1945, weren't you? The only Muggle-born to get the position for decades!"

Tommie shook her head in disgust. "I was indeed Head Girl. I am no Muggle-born."

"Oh." Hermione's disappointment was sharp. "I just always assumed you were. I never found any records proving otherwise."

"You wouldn't have, no." Tommie sighed, her expression curdling in regret. "I never made my parentage widely known. A select few of my Housemates knew the truth, but no one outside ever needed that sort of knowledge. Since I have been gone these fifty years, no one has ever needed to know me."

"Half-blood, then?" Hermione guessed, not really caring about the answer.

"Muggle-raised Half-blood, rather like Harriet," Tommie clarified. She glanced at Harriet's alarm clock. "She'll be back soon. I don't think you want to be caught speaking to me. Better that you break your intrusion to her slowly, hmm?"

Hermione flushed in shame. "You're right. Come on, Crookshanks." Crookshanks blinked at her lethargically, an ear twitching. "No, you can't stay here." She scooped him up and walked swiftly from Harriet's room.

"Don't forget to redo her charms," Tommie taunted. With a huff, Hermione closed the door and magically locked it, just as footsteps could be heard coming up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Tommie's progression is believable.
> 
> My sincerest apologies for the entire self-indulgent film scene. In case y'all wanted to know, _The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes_ was a box office failure in the '70s, but it's pretty great. (Christopher Lee plays Mycroft. What more could you want?)


	8. The Verge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the author has far too much fun coming up with names for magical newspapers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The riddle isn't mine. I just changed tenses and the wording slightly.

She was an idiot, a naïve little brat, a bumbling fool with a fucking death wish... or something.

Why the fuck else would she agree to help a cold-blooded murderer? For Merlin's sake! At no point during their acquaintance had Tommie ever given her any reason to think she was an upstanding citizen. So...

What if there were more equally horrific things that Tommie had neglected to tell her about? (Though she should have expected this... Anyone who even entertained Pureblood supremacy wasn't going to be entirely decent.) Why hadn't she asked that, among a host of other clarifying questions?

(But she enjoyed her company, and the way she would catch Tommie looking at her sometimes... That sort of fond, all-consuming desire''')

"Fuck everything," she snapped at her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she spat out the last of her disgusting Spearmint toothpaste. Being a nonmagical mirror, her reflection didn't give her an unwelcome, pithy retort.

Sleeping in the same room had been... well, not all that bad. Tommie pretended to be asleep, her back diligently turned to Harriet, head tucked under a paw. Harriet, meanwhile, spent most of the night in a half-wakeful daze, the answers she'd prepared for the likeliest long-form essays on the History of Magic exam taking on the shapes of eldritch monsters and galivanting about her head, leaving large swaths of ash and swamp slime in their wake. Tommie's too-even breathing accompanied their progress all the while.

Okay, on second thought, it was one hell of a night. Made her want a drink or a hit of that hybrid magical marijuana Neville was rumored to be breeding to forget it. Except she probably shouldn't do either of those things, with Riddle skulking in her life.

A headache throbbed above her right eye. Harriet stumped out to the kitchen, riffling through the disorganized drawer in which they kept a jumbled mix of Muggle medicine and potions. She considered a Pepper-Up Potion, then put it back with a grimace. Steam pouring out her ears would be an awful start to the day. Triumphantly, she found an unopen bottle of painkillers and swallowed two with a handful of water from the tap.

Why didn't they have a Headache-Relieving Potion, anyway?

"Good morning," Hermione said through a jaw-cracking yawn, traipsing into the kitchen in her slippers and dressing gown.

"Morning," Harriet mumbled.

"Happy birthday!" Hermione added, putting on the kettle and bending to scratch Crookshanks behind the ears as he wound between her ankles, purr rumbling in his chest loudly enough for Harriet to hear it from across the room.

"Thanks," Harriet said, buttering a slice of toast with uneven jabs.

"You don't look well. Are you feeling all right?" Hermione asked a couple moments later, pouring the boiled water into two mismatched mugs and adding teabags, then sliding one in front of Harriet's spot at the table.

"Didn't sleep well," Harriet sighed, sitting down gratefully and taking a bite of her toast. Her stomach roiled as she swallowed. She endeavored to ignore it.

"Nerves?" Hermione sat across from her, tentatively taking a sip from her teacup and hissing in pain.

Harriet rolled her eyes at Hermione's ritualistic impatience. "Probably." She took a sip of her own tea in the hope that it would help her nausea (it did, sort of).

The next few minutes were filled with Harriet's crunching and rustling pages as Hermione read both the _Times_ and the _Daily Prophet_.

"Have you heard back about your internship yet?" Harriet asked to fill the silence.

Hermione shook her head. "I only sent the application in two days ago."

"Did they say when you should hear back by?"

"Two weeks at most." Hermione fiddled with a corner of her newspaper. "I won't get it, Harriet. I should just go to university, forget a career in the magical world. Most Muggle-borns do that, if they want to survive."

"You'll get it," Harriet said firmly. "You've got great references, and they say Madam Bones is pretty egalitarian."

"That may not matter, if she's having to bow to Lucius Malfoy's whims and endless streams of galleons," Hermione reminded her sourly.

"I know." Harriet checked her watch. It was ten to nine. "I need to go." She downed the last of her tea and rubbed the tender spot above her eye. The headache had mostly faded, but she still felt out of sorts.

"Good luck," Hermione called as she picked up her wand and stepped out the front door.

"Thank you," she called over her shoulder.

The Ministry was unusually busy today—far more crowded than it had been the rest of the week. Harriet scanned the atrium for someone to ask what the hell was happening. She abruptly changed her mind, however, when she spotted Rita Skeeter lurking in the crowd, her coiffed golden hair and green handbag unmistakable, with what looked suspiciously like a brand-new Quick Quotes Quill clutched tightly in her hand. Well, Harriet thought savagely, at least she'd never use that thing to write about her again.

The balding wizard at the wand registration desk—Eric, or something of the sort—just rolled his eyes when she approached him. "Press conference later," he said. "Fudge and Bones—the usual suspects. Not really sure what it's about. They all packed in here right when the fireplaces opened. Gotta get good standing spots, I guess."

"That sounds awful," she said fervently.

"You have no idea, kid. I'm all for transparency and whatnot, but..." He handed back her wand and took refuge behind his rumpled newspaper. Not the _Prophet_ , she noted with interest. _The Semiweekly Seer_ , a low-budget knockoff that cared for facts only slightly more than _The Quibbler_ did. ... Still massively better than the _Prophet_.

She hurried to the lift, hitting the button with more force than necessary. When the doors clanged open, she squeezed inside with half a dozen others, none of whom paid her any mind, much to her relief.

The Potions practical was surprisingly simple: she was asked only to brew a cauldron of Elixir to Induce Euphoria, paired with making an antidote to an unknown, undetectable poison.

Brewing—without Snape's stream of criticisms and invectives about her father—was relaxing. Harriet would never achieve Hermione's efficiency, but she was a far sight better than average. Thoroughness was key, she'd discovered, even if she lacked true instinctive knowledge of plant properties. Snape would have laughed, she was certain. He maintained that none of her NEWT-LEVEL classmates had any actual skill "for such a subtle art." (Tommie was likely brilliant with potions... but she avoided that thought assiduously.) With a nostalgic grimace, she bottled the last of her antidote and turned it in to the examiner, who appeared half-asleep.

The History of Magic test began easily. The first three quarters consisted of questions with factual answers—no arguing or inconvenient opining necessary. The last question, though...

Her hand ached. The sand in the hourglass dripped inexorably into its base.

"Ten more minutes, Miss Potter," the ancient, silver-haired examiner announced, squinting at the hourglass peevishly.

The question was about the goblin rebellion of 1752. "What could have been done to quash the rebellion sooner and save the careers of Ministers Boot and Flack? How could such procedures be used in the future?"

Could they be any more blatant? If she answered the way she wanted, then her final score would be somewhere in the vast gray area between an A and a P. The proper course, as she saw it, was for Boot or Flack to have given the goblins and the werewolves that eventually joined them everything they'd asked for—the right to wands and seats on the Wizengamot—and then some. Their careers were rightfully cut short. As for the future... With a sigh, she scrawled a final paragraph: "One rebellion was put down, but nothing meaningful has changed since. The same will happen again, and the futures of other 'gifted, deserving' wizards will follow suit."

She dropped her quill, shook out her hand, and watched the final grains reach the bottom.

"All right, you may go."

"Thank Merlin," she said and scarpered, not sparing him a final glance.

Leaving the Ministry was as difficult as she'd feared. The press conference was in full swing in the atrium, so the public could see the prettiest part of the building and the reporters could see as little as possible of what went on. Since it was in the middle of the afternoon, few employees were affected—heaven forbid the cogs of the bureaucracy suffer interruptions. Harriet, though, had to attempt to skirt around it. Being who she was, she failed.

"Potter! Potter!" No, fucking hell no...

"Let the girl be," Madam Bones barked from where she stood at a podium, not a hair out of place, her navy dress robes perfectly pressed. In jeans and with fly-away hair, Harriet felt scruffy and underdressed in comparison.

"One question, Potter?" a reporter from _Magical Investors UK_ —a dry, little read American export—pleaded.

She wondered briefly what they'd say if she ran. But she wanted this, didn't she? To be known? To be taken seriously, so that when she spoke, people would hear?

She nodded, the fingers of her right hand tapping against her thigh.

"What are your plans now?" the same forward reporter called.

The cameras were flashing. She couldn't think— couldn't stay— She didn't really know (she did know, but couldn't remember), only that she wanted everything to be better. What a fool she was. "To work quietly and talk when I must," she said—hacked out like Crookshanks did hairballs, to unimpressed stares.

She wanted to cry, could feel her heart pounding in her temples.

Madam Bones threw out her arm. "After your performance, any field—any job here, no doubt—is open to you," she said kindly. Appreciative applause followed.

"My best friend is brilliant, potentially much better at Ministry work," Harriet croaked, meaning it, not thinking about anything but getting away as quickly as she could.

"Of course. Hermione Granger?" Bones asked.

"Yes." Later, she would remember this exchange and fear she'd ruined Hermione's chances.

Bones smiled tightly. "You are modest. Off with you, then. The world awaits."

She left gratefully, edging into the nearest fireplace and sweeping away.

She Disapparated as soon as she could and ran up the stairs, panting. She pushed through the door to find Hermione and Crookshanks standing in the hallway, Crookshanks straining to get out of Hermione's arms and to Harriet's room.

"Is everything okay?" Harriet asked, feeling a muted sense of foreboding.

"Yes," Hermione replied shortly and came out to meet her, letting Crookshanks go as she did so. "How did your last steps to fully-qualified witch-hood go?"

Crookshanks meowed loudly and scampered back down the hall to stand with tail elect outside Harriet's door.

"Good. Fine. Whatever." Harriet was wrung out. Hermione was acting suspiciously, the press would say she was an idiot, and T-Riddle was—

"You went into my room, didn't you?" She sounded ambivalent; she felt nothing.

Hermione fiddled with a miniscule piece of lint on the hem of her shirt and didn't bother to attempt eye contact—which would have failed, anyway. Harriet didn't usually go for such things, especially on the verge of an implosion the way she was now. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, her voice quavering.

"Look, I'm too tired to be mad," Harriet sighed. "Things went to shit after I finished, so I really don't care at the moment."

"Then yes, I did break your locking charms," Hermione snapped. "Happy?"

"Are you?" Harriet parried.

"Crookshanks certainly seems to be," Hermione replied. "Acted like she was his hero... or best friend."

Harriet nodded jerkily. "Did he cuddle?"

"He tried," Hermione muttered. "Didn't give him enough time to get comfortable. You don't seem surprised."

"Don't have it in me to be surprised." Harriet knew she should be livid, or anxious about tonight. But right now, she just needed to be left alone. Everything was too loud and too bright... and she needed to hide from it.

She pushed past Hermione and opened her door with a brisk tap of her wand. Riddle looked up eagerly at her entrance, then dropped her head between her paws and swished her tail in a wide arc.

"You're sulking?" Harriet asked. What right did she have to sulk? God!

"No."

"Have you eaten?" Harriet glanced over at the box she'd painstakingly charmed to keep its contents cold, which had been a necessity in order to hide Riddle's food from Hermione.

"Would my answer interest you?" Riddle retorted. "No matter. Of course I have. I'm not stupid."

"No, just bloodthirsty," Harriet snapped.

Riddle raised an eyebrow. "Is that all? You're not, oh I don't know, going to help me see why murder is wrong, etc. etc.?"

"You don't regret killing them, just that you felt you had to tell me." Harriet threw herself face down on her bed and raised her hands to cover her ears. "I still don't understand why you bothered," she said into her pillow, breathing in the comforting scent of her own hair.

"The curse compelled it, perhaps," Riddle mused quietly. Harriet lowered her hands to catch her muffled words. "Or I could no longer bare to deceive you. Perhaps both at once."

Somehow, neither of these possibilities were reassuring. Harriet covered her ears again and closed her eyes.

An hour later found Harriet and Hermione finishing last-minute preparations for the evening's festivities. Hermione conjured green streamers. Harriet put Silencing Charms up around the walls and floors to prevent complaints from angry neighbors.

"The only things we're providing are plates and cups, right?" Harriet clarified, dubiously eyeing their mismatched selection of plastic and paper.

"You said Remus was bringing Ab's food and booze, and everyone else has desserts." Hermione smirked slightly. "Luna's bringing the cake. It should be entertaining."

Harriet had little doubt she was right. "I'll probably regret this after an hour," she admitted. "We should have gone somewhere else, too. This place isn't exactly huge."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Extension Charms are fine in a pinch, and you've invited fewer than ten people—"

"Who don't all necessarily like each other," Harriet groaned.

"Your party," Hermione reminded her lightly, pulling a streamer out of Crookshanks's mouth. "I do have one question, though."

"What's that?"

"Why didn't you have Remus over sooner?" A slight furrow appeared between her brows.

Oh, fuck.

"It wouldn't be because you wanted other people's scents to disguise the sphinx's, would it?"

Of course, she was going to make the connection eventually. Harriet didn't answer, except to nod minutely.

"Damn, I should have figured this out ages ago," Hermione said bitterly. "I wish you'd told me. Maybe we could have broken her curse by now."

"I don't care what happens to her," Harriet said, restacking the plates to occupy her hands. "The longer it takes, the better for everyone." But then she'd be stuck with Riddle and feel guilt and regret in equal measure.

"What did she say to you? When I—" Hermione stopped and looked sheepish. "When I talked to her earlier, she seemed rather... rueful, I suppose. Quite certain you wouldn't help her anymore."

"It doesn't matter," Harriet said hollowly. "I'm far too naive to make good life choices."

"Hmm." Hermione finished the streamers with a final flick of her wand, Crookshanks leaping up in savage excitement to bat the last additions in greeting. "Down, kitty," she reprimanded.

Harriet laughed. Watching Crookshanks was one of the best parts of her day.

*

The first to arrive were the Weasleys: the twins, Ron, and Ginny, several misshapen packages in tow. "Additional decorations and party favors," Fred explained with a grin that Harriet deeply mistrusted.

Millicent Bulstrode—with whom Harriet had shared both classes and misanthropy—arrived next. When she caught sight of the gaggle of redheads, she groaned and eyed the door she'd just come through. "This is going to be a long night, isn't it?"

"I doubt it," Harriet reassured her. "Everyone else I invited hates parties as much as you do."

"Good." Bulstrode perched on the now magically extended couch and watched the proceedings with affected disinterest.

Neville, Luna, and Blaise came next. "Oh, thank Merlin," Bulstrode murmured on seeing them. "You weren't kidding."

"I never kid," Harriet protested, putting a hand over her heart in mock offense.

Luna tipped her head to the side when Harriet approached her. "You've lost something, haven't you?"

"My mind, maybe. Other than that, I don't know," Harriet sighed.

Luna patted her lightly on the hand. "Wait until you try my cake. Cakes always answer questions for me."

When the cake was uncovered in its place of honor at the center of the table, Harriet smiled. It was a perfectly boring, rich, decadent chocolate one. Yes, it would undoubtedly answer some questions, such as whether life was worth living (yes, indeed). Hermione facepalmed.

Remus arrived fifteen minutes later—laden with bottles and containers—to wild cheers. He accepted them with a gracious nod. "I'm glad to see you all remember me fondly."

"I forgot everything," George stage-whispered. "But the butter beer and fire whiskey you have there are promising new memories as we speak."

"I second that," Fred said heartily.

The twins' party favors consisted of canary creams (Crookshanks pounced on Neville when he sampled one, and they were immediately put away) and grape soda that caused large purple bubbles to emerge from the nose (Ron mixed his with fire whiskey and immediately went to throw up).

"Better luck next time," Ginny said consolingly. She kept steeling glances at Harriet from the corner of her eye. "Let's try this Exploding Snap with Extra Explosions." It turned out to be Extraneous Explosions: some accompanied with strains of heavy metal music, some by sirens. Harriet merely watched the game—played in teams of Gryffindors versus Luna and the Slytherins, her arms crossed over her chest.

"How have you been, sweetheart?" Remus asked, sitting beside her. He didn't seem remotely suspicious, so her precautions had borne fruit.

"Fine," she replied. "Good party. Long day."

He nodded sagely. "They're here for you. I don't think they'd mind if you took a break from them."

"They would." She studied her shoes—a bit scuffed but her favorites nonetheless. "Anything new with you?" she asked to shift the conversation away from her.

He smiled. "Ever heard of Sirius Black? He came in with Ludo Bagman one day a couple weeks ago to straighten out a bet—on you winning the Tournament, I believe. Bagman blew him off. He and I got to talking. He's been dropping in to say hello... rather a lot since."

"The head of the family, isn't he?"

"Yes. He was in Slytherin when we were in school together, but he's really quite reasonable now. You'd like him, I think." Remus was radiant.

"Congratulations, then," she said.

"We'll see about that, but I'm hopeful." His excitement dimmed a little. "Dumbledore's been stopping by quite a bit as well. Keeps asking about you. I have no idea why. Ab is rather annoyed by it, as you can no doubt imagine."

Harriet grimaced. "That's odd," she said. "Dumbledore's never paid any attention to me before."

Remus blinked lazily at her, seeming to sense something off with her response. Shaking his head, he pulled out a book and began to read.

Harriet had been right. She did regret having a party like this. With profuse apologies and vague promises of her return, she hurried to her room. They would think her rude, she told herself, but the day had been interminable, and she couldn't take anymore.

There were footsteps behind her; she started, turned around. "Harriet," Ginny said quietly. "Can we talk?"

Well, fuck. Ginny had been waiting for this all night, probably. But Riddle was lurking in her room like the remnants of a bad dream. It would look very odd indeed if she directed Ginny elsewhere now after so awkward a departure, so what was she to do?

"Er, I guess so." Harriet said this loudly enough that Tommie would hear through the blessedly still-shut door and make herself scarce. "Come on in."

"Cool," Ginny followed eagerly as Harriet stepped hesitantly over the threshold. Harriet sighed in relief. Riddle was nowhere to be seen.

Ginny immediately took her hand. "You look like shit," she said. "Is everything all right?"

The question of the evening. "Could be worse," Harriet replied shortly. "What did you want to talk about?" As if she didn't know.

Ginny looked disappointed. "I just... If you wanted, we could try..."

Yesterday, Harriet would have dismissed her out of hand. But that was before Riddle's confession—the betrayal that shouldn't have been as unexpected as it was. Instead of doing the wise thing and sending Ginny away, she listened quietly.

Ginny rallied. "I know you don't want a long-term relationship, but it wouldn't have to be traditional or exclusive or even all that serious. I won't push you this time." She widened her chocolate-brown eyes, desperately hopeful.

"I—" Harriet was at a loss. Ginny was pretty, fun, great at Quidditch, and had never killed anyone in cold blood. A plethora of pluses, if she was being honest with herself.

While Harriet sat lost in thought, Ginny leaned forward and kissed her full on the mouth. She smelled of summer flowers and tasted like fire whiskey and peppermint. Harriet gave a faint hmm of pleasure, deepening the kiss. She had no reason not to, other than absent good sense. Cho was years past now, and Riddle was never even a consideration. Never, dammit!

Harriet wrapped an arm around Ginny's back, drawing her close.

There was a rustle, a low snarl, and a displacement of air. 

Harriet pushed Ginny away reflexively as Riddle pounced. Her wand was in her hand before she fully understood what was happening. A Stunning Spell went flying. She aimed for Riddle, but Riddle was lithe and quick and dodged it easily. In the bedroom's tight quarters, it hit Ginny instead, who fell to the floor with a surprised gasp.

"No!" Harriet cried. "Stop, stop! Please!"

Riddle clawed at the carpet, her sides heaving, her eyes narrowed to slits. "Did you really think I'd appreciate you snogging with such disgusting abandon in front of me?"

With the truly murderous look she was giving Ginny's unconscious body, Harriet doubted that the kissing itself was the only problem. "I didn't know she was going to do that. And for your information, I don't owe you any sort of respect."

Riddle hissed. "Obliviate her and get her out of here. She saw me. No one must know."

For a moment, Harriet was tempted to comply. She could make Ginny forget far more than Riddle... The kiss they'd shared could be gone, and they would never need to discuss it. But—

"She's a friend. She doesn't deserve that." Harriet resolutely put away her wand.

"What are you, a Hufflepuff?" Riddle spat, fur bristling along her spine. "When you wake her up, she will run out there and shout about the sphinx she's seen. Do you really want to deal with the fallout?"

Harriet gritted her teeth, her eyes pricking with tears of frustration. "You've asked enough of me! I don't know how to Obliviate, and even if I did, I wouldn't do it to... anyone! It's reprehensible."

"You stupid, stupid girl," Riddle growled. Her head drooped. She sounded utterly defeated. "Get her out of here, then. I don't care how." She disappeared into the closet.

Harriet crouched next to Ginny's head. "Enervate!" she muttered unenthusiastically. Ginny stirred and sat up, shaking her tangled hair back in confusion.

"What happened?" she croaked. "I was kissing you, and then..." She passed a hand in front of her face. "Was there a large cat?"

"You're a bit drunk," Harriet told her quickly—it wasn't untrue, after all. "You passed out for a second."

"Oh," Ginny muttered. "Sorry." She flushed and stumbled to her feet. "Are we... anything?"

"I'm sorry," Harriet said. "Things just won't work between us."

"It's okay," Ginny replied, although it didn't sound okay in the least. "Thought it would be worth one more shot, you know?"

"Right," Harriet said. "You should go back out. Tell them I'll be there in a bit."

"Sure," Ginny said and hurried through the door. Harriet closed it behind her.

"See?" she snapped in Riddle's direction. "No harm done."

"So it would seem." Riddle padded to the center of the room and settled onto her haunches. "You are very unhappy about the way that conversation went."

"Brilliant observation."

"Are you unhappy for her or for yourself?" Riddle leaned forward earnestly. Harriet was certain it was an act, or worse yet, just a mark of Riddle's creepy attachment.

"Both," she answered anyway.

Riddle nodded. "But you believe she will find happiness more easily with someone else."

"I know she will. I can only imagine us as casual acquaintances. She deserves someone who returns her feelings and shares her relationship ideals."

"You deserve happiness as much as she does." Riddle was matter-of-fact.

"Oh?" Harriet had no idea where this conversation was going.

"Yes, and I would do anything to make it so."

Harriet's mouth dropped open. Something was shifting, a strange electricity at the edge of her senses. Riddle seemed suddenly frozen and began to speak again, her eyes losing their intensity.

"I caused the destruction of Troy, the worst of tragedies and numerous maladies, yet I am chaste, desired, and ever fought for. What am I?"

This was it, then: The riddle they'd been searching for. It mirrored their first meeting, except Harriet could see no path forward. The answer came easily, though, as if, like the riddle itself, it had been waiting, fully-formed. "Love," Harriet said, disbelieving the word as she said it. "The answer is... love."

"Love," Riddle repeated, seeming to emerge from whatever trance that had paralyzed her.

The moment hung suspended, the tension putting Harriet's teeth on edge. It would be crystallized in her memory forever.

"Love," Tommie said once more, the shape of the word seemingly unfamiliar in her mouth. And then—

The world exploded.


	9. From Ember to Inferno

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been looking forward to this chapter since the beginning...

"I caused the destruction of Troy, the worst of tragedies and numerous maladies, yet I am chaste, desired, and ever fought for. What am I?"

Her mouth moved without her consent. The riddle simply was.

Harriet was frozen. Tommie was placid, unconcerned (except that she was simultaneously anything but).

"Love. The answer is… love." Harriet seemed caught in the same trance, her incredulity unmistakable as she spoke.

"Love," she tried. It felt right, like a long-lost puzzle piece correctly placed, like fangs buried in the throats of wriggling prey.

She… loved her. The shattering, remaking she felt. This uncharacteristic desire for someone else's happiness. Unfamiliar, yet right.

"Love," she repeated, tasting it with wonder. And something within her collapsed.

She unraveled in a burst of magic and pain, a shock wave sending Harriet to her knees. Her paws were melting, her fur was retreating, her bones were shifting and cracking in horrific patterns. The amount of magic required to maintain such a spell left the room in complete disarray.

Tommie screamed. (Really, what else could she do?)

The transformation took mere seconds—or was it hours, days, a thrice-damned eternity?—and then everything fell still. She lay facedown where she'd fallen, panting. Her body felt wrong—naked—flat—weak. Cloth rubbed against her skin as she moved, and she began to blearily examine herself for the first time to see what it was.

Despite feeling otherwise, she wasn't naked at all. She wore the same clothing that she'd been transformed in: heavy trousers, hiking boots, cotton shirt. Her wand was still in its holster. Even her bottle of water was here. How… considerate, she supposed. She took a tentative sip, then let the open bottle slosh away. The water was absolutely foul.

"Um," Harriet said, seemingly recovered from her fall, her hair still standing on end. "So, um, that's it, then."

"Indeed," Tommie agreed. She tried to stretch but stopped when her claws didn't extend.

She had no claws. She knew this. But— Her hands were pallid against the brown of the carpet. She simply stared at them, resisting the urge to knead in frustration.

She rose to all fours, turned about. Her limbs felt oddly proportioned, her hind legs much longer than her forelegs. She flicked her tail. She had no tail to flick. She knew this, too.

"Are you okay?"

"I think I need help," Tommie muttered. She endeavored to stand properly and nearly landed in a tangled heap. Harriet put out a hand, steadying her.

Standing on two feet felt like the tenuous task of rearing up without a tail for balance. … She'd never thought she'd miss hers.

"Why don't you sit down?" Harriet suggested. Tommie nodded a little shakily, and Harriet supported her across the room to the bed. Tommie perched on the edge.

"I'm, er, going to go out and end and party," Harriet said uncomfortably.

"You don't have to do that on my account," Tommie protested, her tongue moving strangely in her mouth. Her fangs had dulled and shrunken, had become hardly significant amid a row of squarer, flatter teeth.

"I came back here because I couldn't take anymore," Harriet replied harshly. "It has very little to do with you."

She wasn't being wholly truthful (an old skill, quietly reemerging), but it still stung. Tommie tried to sense Harriet's true feelings and found… nothing.

In fact, there were no emotions to sense… anywhere. They had been… snuffed out… Was she entirely alone, and Harriet just an illusion of her fevered brain?

"Wait! Don't go!" she choked, beginning to panic.

Harriet came back reluctantly, her face pinched in something that resembled concern. "I'm not going far," she sighed.

"I don't sense… what I did… before." No scents, no emotions. The world had lost its vibrancy, and Harriet—if she were here at all—was just Harriet.

"Oh." Harriet did come back then, resting a hand on her shoulder. "I'm… sorry."

When she made to remove her hand, Tommie put hers atop it, keeping it in place. Harriet fidgeted from foot to foot, not meeting her eyes, her cheeks tinged a faint pink. "Thank you," Tommie tried. It was hardly enough, hardly scratching the surface of the muddle she was in.

"Yeah." Harriet extricated her hand and hurried from the room.

Tommie watched the place where she'd disappeared for a moment, then shook her head in a vain effort to clear it. She would be back, she said. She still existed. She was no illusion.

She let her wand fall into her hand for the first time, felt the warmth of it chase through her fingers, up her arm, blossom in her chest.

The room was a mess. She could fix that. She swished her wand once, then twice. Scattered papers and torn books returned to their homes. The owl cage—blessedly empty for the moment—righted itself. The general air of chaos faded.

Much better.

She was euphoric. She was free. She was floating on a cloud of… bone-deep exhaustion. It came on suddenly and inexorably. She fell back onto Harriet's bed and knew no more.

*

The front room was uncomfortably quiet as Harriet emerged. Everyone stared, some out of curiosity, some anxiety. Hermione was the first to speak.

"Is everything all right? We thought we heard a scream."

Shit, the Silencing Charm must have broken. Harriet found Ginny passed out, her head in Bulstrode's lap, her feet in Zabini's. Neither seemed put out by this arrangement. Her heart sank with guilt.

"Everything's fine," she said awkwardly. "But I think all of you should go." Damn, that sounded rude. It hadn't in her head.

Hermione eyed her knowingly. "I agree," she said. (Harriet gave her what she hoped was a grateful look but could just as easily have been a grimace.) "Long day, you know. Take any leftover food and drinks you want."

"Hey, now you're talking," Fred said weakly.

"I'm sorry," Harriet tried, too late to count.

Luna smiled at her contentedly. "Love is beautiful," she sing-songed. She was definitely drunk.

"Love is messy," Harriet automatically corrected.

"That, too." Luna nodded decisively.

They all streamed out the door, Ron and George supporting Ginny between them. Remus lingered worriedly. "There's someone else here, isn't there?"

"Yes, but you probably knew that when you arrived."

"Not really." (Oh, good. Her plan had succeeded.) He sighed, shaking his head ruefully. "Can never be certain of scents when magic is involved. Something changed, though. That was clear enough."

Harriet hugged him, desperate for comfort that she didn't deserve. He returned her embrace, patting her back firmly.

When everyone had mercifully departed, Hermione gave Harriet a critical once-over.

"Did you drink anything?" Harriet muttered, a little annoyed at her scrutiny.

"Some. Obviously less than Ginny. That's not important. What the hell did you say to her? What happened back there? We all heard the scream."

"Curses break loudly," Harriet replied, burying her face in her hands. "I need to go and—" She hurried away from Hermione's cloying concern.

The room had been set to rights. Crookshanks was curled up on her bed, resting contentedly against Tommie's side. Tommie, meanwhile, was sound asleep, still wearing shoes, her wand clutched in her hand.

She looked so… peaceful. And small. And kind of sweet. And also beautiful with her dark hair spilling across the pillow. Harriet just… stared, utterly captivated.

Tommie had killed without remorse and… and the damn curse had broken because she… loved Harriet… What in the fuck? Her heart leapt. She felt sick and exhilarated in turns. She couldn't do this right now.

(Except, that, Merlin! Tommie loved her, and she wanted to dance… Hell no!)

Harriet quickly unlaced Tommie's boots, then gently pried her fingers from her wand—in case she rolled on it whilst she slept—and set it on the nightstand. As she held it, she noted a warmth not dissimilar to what she felt with her own and nothing like what she’d once felt when she'd held Hermione's on a whim.

Oh, glorious distraction!

Harriet hurried over to an undisturbed stack of old books and rummaged through them until she withdrew a thin, dusty tome on wand lore. She hadn't read it in years, not since she'd skimmed it after buying her wand. There'd only been one section that interested her, and she flipped to it, remembering her visit to Ollivander's as she went. 

"Curious," he'd said, wrapping the holly-and-phoenix wand in a box and brown paper.

"What's curious?"

"The phoenix who gave the feather for your wand gave one other… just the one. But the owner of that wand has not been heard from in many years. Perhaps, we can expect great things from you, Miss Potter, where she never delivered."

"But who—"was she began.

"Never you mind." And he'd dismissed her brusquely, as if the exchange had never occurred. So off to Flourish and Blots she'd gone to find out anything she could. This book was the most affordable they'd had in stock.

Brother wands meant little, it claimed. Duels between them were nigh impossible, but that didn't mean their wielders shared anything of note. Harriet closed it, unsatisfied. She was probably wrong about Tommie's wand, anyway.

Harriet lay down cautiously beside Tommie, trying to jostle the mattress as little as possible. The bed was big enough for the two of them, and she didn't have the heart to make Tommie move elsewhere, not like the other time she'd found her asleep in her bed.

*

She did not dream. No, that wasn't quite right. She dreamed, perhaps, of sensation alone. Complete, new, whole. Pleasant, yet strange for all that.

When she woke, the sensation was gone. She was on her back—not a position she was used to. Her eyelids were heavy. Her stomach growled belligerently. Her mouth felt sticky and tasted foul. She cleared her throat fruitlessly.

"Good morning," a needlessly chipper voice said. "Sleep well?"

Tommie wrenched her eyes open to find Harriet standing beside the bed, fully-dressed but less put-together than she sounded. Her hair was sticking up in all directions and there were bags under her eyes as if she hadn't slept half as deeply as Tommie had.

"I suppose." Her voice was hoarse. "I could use some water, I think. Fresh water, not bottled, if you please."

"Come on, then. You should start walking around as soon as possible, else I'd get it for you."

She was probably right, but Tommie couldn't help a flash of resentment. She rolled off the bed, landing awkwardly on her feet and steadying herself with a startled grasp at Harriet's nightstand. Little improvement since last night, then.

She spotted her wand near her hand and quickly picked it up, the familiar rightness of it spreading through her fingers. "You fell asleep holding it," Harriet told her. "Thought it would be better off there."

"Thank you," Tommie replied. She pushed away from the nightstand and took a tentative step toward Harriet. Then a second. Then a couple strides. Harriet smiled encouragingly; Tommie had never felt more humiliated.

It was a very long walk.

Hermione sat drinking tea and reading at the kitchen table. She raised her head as they entered, unsurprised. Crookshanks was batting around a bundle of feathers, which he abandoned to rub against Tommie's leg.

"Well, well," Hermione murmured. "This is quite the change since yesterday."

"You don't say." Harriet pulled out a chair for Tommie and darted off to fill a glass. Tommie obligingly sat, pushing Crookshanks gently away, wishing she could have comfortably remained standing. How long would this discomfort last?

The water was soothing. The porridge from a pot warming on the stove brought back memories of breakfasts she'd shared with associates—dead now, some of them—that she hadn't thought of in decades. Harriet quietly ate her own porridge. Hermione studied Tommie with an expression she could interpret only as rabid curiosity.

"So, how did the curse break?" Hermione finally asked, jittery in anticipation.

"She said a riddle. I answered it." Harriet swayed slightly from side to side, one of her feet bouncing.

"That's it? But how did you know the riddle?" Hermione asked, turning to Tommie.

"I just… did. It simply came to me when I felt… the requisite emotion." Was it merely an emotion, though? She tried again. "When I understood." Better, if even more vague.

"Fascinating. And what's it like being human again?" Hermione demanded.

"Odd." Harriet still seemed removed from the conversation. Tommie wished she would contribute again. The interrogation was too close, and she had no desire to push Harriet further away by offending her Mudblood friend with some snappish retort.

"Are you experiencing any dysphoria?" Hermione asked. "Animagi have reported that sort of thing after being in their second forms too long."

"A bit." Tommie considered. "Less now, I believe. Last night was unpleasant."

"I'm sure it will pass in time," Hermione said reassuringly.

"I hope so."

Harriet seemed to come back to herself as the conversation petered out. "Um," she began, "you don't look like you've aged a day."

"Oh?" She needed to see for herself how she now appeared. The state of her clothing and belongings suggested Harriet was correct. The curse was removed, and she had returned fully to what she had been. But—

"Don't follow me, please," Tommie said, getting to her feet with much greater ease and entering the small bathroom. She placed her hands on either side of the sink, leaning close to the mirror. The woman staring back at her had hair that was in desperate need of a wash and thorough brushing, a clump hanging over her left ear. Her skin was unblemished. Her eyes were dark, the pupils round—

Ah. That was different. They had been a rather vivid red with slitted pupils after Horcrux Number Five. She'd hidden it well, but this was no glamour and that meant—

Everything had reverted to how it had been, except for her soul.

No!

No, she would not believe this yet, would not accept the end of her immortality, the death of Lord Voldemort. But for years, she had entertained the hope that the Sorcerer's painful reassembly had been part of the curse, that it, too, would cease once she had found the riddle.

No!

The mirror shattered. Her drawn face was reflected in jagged pieces: A mosaic of misery. She heard frantic footsteps pounding down the hall.

No!

She needed to go. She raced ahead of the footsteps, clumsily pulling on her boots.

"Tommie, what's wrong—?” Harriet's hand clutching hers…

She needed to go. She spun on the spot and Disapparated with a thunderous crack, dragging Harriet along with her.

They emerged from the suffocating darkness in the middle of an overgrown, untended hedgerow. Harriet dropped her hand abruptly and began blasting her way through the tangled vines. Tommie followed her path, thinking ruefully that they had not been so wild when she'd been here before.

Harriet halted in the long grass the hedges hadn't yet reached, just in front of Tommie's destination. Tommie brushed impatiently past her and began removing the wards she'd put up—strong as ever, thank god.

"What is this place?" Harriet croaked.

"My mother was raised here," she replied shortly, the rotting door swinging inward with a final flick of her wand. Tommie entered, Harriet walking hesitantly in her wake. She almost told her to stay outside, but what would be the point? If it came to it, she could Obliviate her just as easily inside the hovel as out. (Or was it that she merely wanted Harriet to know everything? Or that she was too much of a coward to face her failure alone? … Best not to answer those.)

It was dim inside, the midsummer day unable to make itself known. Every surface was caked in a thick layer of dust and grime, the only light a faint glimmer through the front window. Harriet furtively lit her wand. Tommie, meanwhile, crouched in the center of the floor and opened the trapdoor to what had once been the cellar. A large wooden box floated to her hand at her summons. She caught it, letting the trapdoor fall closed.

The box sprang open at her hissed :Open.: The items within appeared uncorrupted by time. She picked up first one, then another.

There was nothing in the diary. The Peverell ring did not resonate when she touched it. Hufflepuff's cup remained still. Ravenclaw's diadem was in the Albanian tree she'd found it in, but she had no doubt of its emptiness. She could not bear to touch Slytherin's—her mother's locket, could not bare to feel it as lifeless as all the rest.

This was no true reversion; her soul was indeed stubbornly whole.

No matter. She could fix that directly.

(No, she couldn't! She gained nothing, lost all''')

Tommie unsheathed her wand and turned to face Harriet—beautiful, wild, unequaled Harriet—and cast. Not a Killing Curse, she realized too late. A Disarming Charm. (She meant to kill her, she couldn't kill her, she needed her.)

Harriet, still wary, smoothly raised her own wand and deflected it. "What the fuck!" she shouted, justifiably confused.

In the heat of the duel, Tommie bared her teeth in a savage, exultant grin.

"Tommie! Is this really what you want right now?"

"Yes! Fight back. Fight! Back!" And Harriet did.

Tommie cast again, not caring what, only that she needed a duel, needed to win, needed to prove her worth. Harriet returned everything curse for curse, each reflected hotly in her eyes. They danced from one end of the hovel's parlor to the other, leaving no piece of decrepit furniture intact, no patch of dust undisturbed. Perhaps they would have continued indefinitely, but something unusual occurred.

"Crucio!" Tommie bit out, wanting suddenly to hear a symphony of screams, for others' pain had so often been her balm.

"Stupefy!" Harriet spat nearly simultaneously, on the verge of panic. This duel was clearly not as enjoyable to her.

The Stunning Spell and the Cruciatus Curse collided. Instead of ricocheting off each other as they ought, they became something else entirely.

A golden thread of light stretched between their wands. Tommie's fingers clenched about hers, for it had begun to hum in strange resonance. Harriet was doing the same, her mouth open in surprise. "We need to break this!" she said, her voice going shrill in anxiety. "Right. Fucking. Now."

"On three, then." If Harriet knew what this phenomenon was, then who was she to disagree. "One, two, three!" They each gave an almighty tug, and their wands wrenched apart—reluctantly, she thought. The golden light vanished.

"Explain," Tommie said peremptorily. "Please," she added at Harriet's huff.

"Our wands share a core. Yours is a phoenix feather, right?"

"It is." Ollivander had been suspiciously pleased when it had chosen her, his unnerving eyes alight as he murmured about visions of death and rebirth and greatness. She supposed the rebirth bit was accurate, now.

"He told me mine had a twin, but that the one who had bought it disappeared. I was new to magic. I wanted to know what twin wands meant."

"And?" Cold dread trickled down Tommie's spine.

Harriet's mouth twisted into a painful half-smile. "That was Priori Incantatem. If we'd let it go on, one of our wands would have thrown up past spells. I didn't want to see what yours would show."

Tommie tried to think of something to say but came up short. She had killed only once with this wand but saying that wouldn't be a comfort. "We cannot turn them against each other. We are… fated."

"Fated what?" Harriet was dubious, yet almost hopeful.

She curled up with her head resting on her knees, the way Harriet so often did. "I don't know." But, oh, she had never wished to know anything more. And yet…

If Harriet Potter was, then Lord Voldemort could not be.

Tommie Riddle was left with… nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a year since I started posting. The end is in sight. Thank you for sticking with me.


	10. Tapering, Unfurling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Harriet falls in love over lemonade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is far from the chapter I hoped for. It was either post this chapterlet, or continue agonizing needlessly. Hopefully the length isn't too disappointing.

Harriet was jittery. Her wand hung loosely from her numb fingers. She sat cross-legged in the dust, hand splayed across her sticky forehead. She took in every detail of the room: the daylight peaking shyly through the gaps around the boarded-up window; the thickness of the silence, disturbed only by Tommie's shallow breathing; Tommie herself curled in a heap, her wand and the open wooden box lying forlornly beside her.

Harriet realized dully that there would be no next act unless she moved, and she didn't want to quite yet. Let the moment rest; let the tumult of her thoughts subside. (Had Tommie tried to kill her? Or considered it?)

The air was gritty. It coated the inside of her nose, which was far from pleasant. She couldn't keep waiting here. There was nothing to be gained.

Harriet scrambled to her feet and tiptoed toward Tommie. The little box snapped shut at her approach before she could get a better look at its contents, seeming to hiss in warning. She glared at it, and the serpent worked into the lid glared balefully back, fangs exposed. Disappointed but somehow unsurprised, she gingerly returned the box to its compartment under the trapdoor; Tommie didn't appear to be in the state of mind to do the honors herself. The trapdoor closed heavily when the box came to rest, blending seamlessly with its surroundings. Harriet knew she couldn't open it again. Whatever. And contrary to popular opinion, she valued her appendages far more than satisfying her (insistent) curiosity.

Tommie still hadn't moved, still curled in her stiff ball. Harriet put a hand out, let it hover above her shoulder. Tommie remained unaware, lost deep in some labyrinth, no string to guide her through. Tentatively, Harriet patted her shoulder, the light touch bringing Tommie out of her wending contemplations. Her face was pale and drawn.

"Tommie?"

Tommie blinked, disconsolate, her eyes roving glassily.

"Tommie, can we go?" Harriet asked, as gently as she could, so as not to spook her and risk starting the duel anew. "This really isn't the place for anything."

Tommie laughed weakly. "Darling, I just attacked you without clear provocation, and you would like to depart in my company?"

Harriet gave a short exhale. "Maybe. I'm a Gryffindor. Chivalrous to the end and all." Gryffindor paragon or parody. She couldn't tell which.

Tommie picked up her abandoned wand and began to methodically polish it with the hem of her shirt. "What precisely do you think happened here?" The question was posed casually enough, though Harriet could detect an undercurrent of suspended incredulity.

"Let's see… You came here expecting to find something you didn't want to find." Whatever was in the rabid little box. "Then you, ah, took out your shock and displeasure on me."

"That is accurate, a commendable deduction."

"Great," Harriet said, not remotely triumphant. "So can we please go?"

"You don't deserve any of this," Tommie snapped, an apparent non sequitur.

"Don't tell me what I deserve." Because if she were being honest with herself—and she nearly always was—then she deserved exactly what she was getting. Helping strange women with murky pasts, without concrete benefit beyond potential satisfaction? God, being attacked was the least of likely results. Harriet stiffly helped Tommie to her feet. "Really, don't even start." She narrowed her eyes. "But I do deserve thorough explanations, wouldn’t you say?"

Tommie assented.

"Brilliant! After that, I'll figure out the best way to proceed." Possibly. She didn't have a clue.

"That's fair, but I can guarantee you will not like any of the answers I can give you," Tommie said.

"Probably not," Harriet agreed, wishing she didn't have to. "This is such a miserable place. Your mother was raised here?"

"'Raised' is a generous term."

"Ah." Yet another unsurprising bit of knowledge to join her expanding collection.

They stepped gingerly through the disturbed layer of dust and went blinking out into the sunlight. There were birds chirping and not a cloud to be seen. It was a jarring transition and utterly incongruous with the inside of Harriet's head.

"I don't want to have this conversation anywhere meaningful," Tommie said, Vanishing the dust from their clothes with precise movements.

"We could go for drinks of some kind," Harriet suggested. Better to go somewhere with many people, just in case Tommie got the urge to attack her again. "There's a teashop Hermione likes, and she definitely knows about this sort of thing."

Tommie nodded in resigned understanding. "Muggle, I presume?" she asked with forced casualness, her disdain unmistakable.

Harriet parsed through several snappish retorts before settling on a flat "Yes." She ran a hand through her tousled, sweat-soaked hair. Tommie unconsciously mirrored her, grimacing as her fingers caught in the multitude of snarls. "No one will recognize me. No one will care whatever we talk about, should they inadvertently overhear. And besides, you should really start understanding how the Muggle world has changed, too."

"Good enough for me." Tommie firmly grasped Harriet's hand. Harriet did not flinch away, although it took a fair bit of effort. "Off we go, then."

"Off we go," Harriet affirmed and Disapparated.

*

"You'd clean up well," the scruffy uni boy ahead of them in line said, giving Tommie a shameless once-over.

Tommie's hand flexed toward her wand, then dropped back to her side. "You certainly don't," she replied sharply. The kid grabbed his glass—of what, Harriet couldn't quite tell—and scurried away to a table as far from them as he could get, giving Tommie a wary look over his shoulder. She smirked.

Harriet felt an odd sort of fondness at the exchange but tried to ignore it. She placed an order for two lemonades and scooped up the tall, condensation-covered glasses, the ice clinking merrily. "Where shall we sit?" she queried.

Tommie pointed peremptorily at a table in the back corner, a convenient half wall shielding it from prying eyes. Harriet led the way across the room, the tables they passed occupied by perfectly boring people drinking a pleasing variety of iced beverages. She doubted their conversations were as horrific as the one she was likely to have.

She was not disappointed. "Have you ever thought much about death, Harriet?" Tommie took a dainty sip, mouth puckering at the tartness, then set down her cup and examined her hands in somewhat embarrassed awe.

Damn, what a way to start! "Not as such." Harriet tasted her own lemonade—perfect amount of sugar, yes!—and wondered where Tommie could possibly be going with this.

"I have." A tangle of ebony hair slipped from behind her ear. She seemed prepared to bring it to her mouth, perhaps to tease it apart with her tongue, then noticed Harriet's intrigued-yet-pitying expression and pushed it away. "The void," she continued relentlessly. "The endless nothingness. The lack of thought. The not-knowing how things go on apace without you. Being forgotten." The last two words were spoken in a harsh whisper.

"Um." Harriet swirled her drink, the ice bobbing about the rim. "I really haven't." But put in such prosaic terms, she could understand why Tommie would. Tommie's turns of phrase made existential angst eminently rational.

"No?" Tommie cocked her head, her lips twisting into an expression Harriet couldn't place, didn't want to place, for it was somewhere between bitter and hungry. "There are ways to avoid death, for those determined enough. What's a little murder, a mutilated soul, pain beyond imagining, then no pain at all, if it means that death will flee in disgust before you?"

"Oh, Tommie." Harriet reached out, her heart twisting, her throat tight. "What is it? That sort of magic?"

"They're called Horcruxes," Tommie said, and the word was sour and curdled, laden with terrible history. "Only the most cold-blooded murder will do for the first. After that…" She closed her eyes. "After that, anything goes."

Harriet could imagine it: Tommie in Hogwarts robes and a neatly-knotted Slytherin scarf, her nose buried in one of those moldering, suspiciously-stained grimoires from the Restricted Section that made most people sick to the stomach, that even Hermione avoided; Tommie, standing over a supine corpse, wild-eyed, wand aloft and sparking; Tommie, crouching in shadow, ripping something wet and dripping from her chest, for where was the soul, if not the heart? Harriet shivered.

"They're gone now," Tommie went on, the words wrenched from her. "That wretched sorcerer made sure of it."

Harriet knew she should be relieved to hear this, but Tommie sat across from her, head in hand, utterly bereft. Unwanted mortality, such a perilous prospect, one that could not be abided. Inexplicably, Harriet ached to comfort her.

"You can leave now, you know," Tommie murmured, her eyes cast down to the smudged tabletop. "My curse is broken. Your obligation to me is done."

"I know" should have been easy to say, but Harriet changed her mind halfway through, and it emerged instead as a mess of incomprehensible syllables. She coughed to cover it, then tried again. "I don't want whatever we have to end." Because how could she forget their banter and how Tommie had let her cry into her fur and— She knew that none of it mattered much, when compared with everything Tommie had confessed to. But the curse was indeed broken—proof beyond proof of a degree of sincerity.

And—

Tommie understood… the burden of revolutionary, world-upending vision. Clichéd. Perhaps trite and foolhardy and rosy in the extreme. But, well, fuck it.

Tommie's head snapped up, her eyes--the pupils round, nothing like how she'd appeared in Harriet's nightmare—wide and hopeful and smoldering. "Truly?" She seemed to balk at the question. "Rather, are you certain?"

"I think so." Harriet grinned, something warm unfurling in her chest. "But you could try convincing me further."

"Oh?" Tommie leaned across the table, intrigued. "And how might I go about it?"

Hermione's voice shouted caution in Harriet's mind. Her argument was cogent and persuasive…

Ah, what the hell. Harriet was a Gryffindor, expected to do impulsive things, which paid off at least, oh, 52 percent of the time (but she was pretty damn sure she wasn't completely stupid). She reached out and grasped Tommie's hand. Tommie returned the grip without hesitation, a contented smile steeling across her face.

Harriet cast her eyes around the teashop. There was some interesting post-modern art displayed that didn't interest her. More importantly, no one was looking over at them—which, admittedly, was a given since Tommie’s Privacy Charm was something of a small-scale marvel.

“Maybe a bit like this.” And Harriet leaned the rest of the way across the table and kissed Tommie full on the mouth. Yeah, maybe it felt a bit like signing one of those compacts with the Devil, or like adding the final flourish to her signature. But Tommie's surprised whimper was worth it.


End file.
